


The river glideth

by KipDigress



Series: Loose ends may tie themselves [3]
Category: due South
Genre: Adventures without drama, F/M, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-09-24 02:32:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 26,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9695816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KipDigress/pseuds/KipDigress
Summary: Too many of Meg Thatcher's birthdays have been spent alone or otherwise brought her pain so she doesn't make a fuss of them. Fraser knows this and surprises her anyway. Maggie MacKenzie is very Fraser-like and can keep secrets as well as her brother. Meg gets her revenge by planning a holiday without letting Benton Fraser know the details; whilst there, Fraser's habit of interfering results in them making a new acquaintance, although they only expect to meet her twice. Abroad could be considered as 'going adventuring', but they do manage to steer clear of too much excitement.





	1. A proposal

**Author's Note:**

> The description of Meg's capture is based on what I can remember of the interrogation (or confession-forcing) techniques practiced in the USSR under Stalin as recorded in the first volume of 'The Gulag Archipelago' by Alexander Solzhenitsyn. It is one of the grimmest books that I have ever read.

One thing Meg Thatcher had learnt from over three years of working with and, after she had returned from several years working for the Canadian Security Intelligence Service, just under four years of dating Benton Fraser, was that although he was alarmingly predictable in many things - including his unorthodox approach to his duties - he could still surprise those who knew him best. So, while Fraser's transfer to a medium sized town a little over half an hour's drive from her posting had been long understood as the next change in their relationship, three and a half years ago he'd still managed to surprise her by the exact manner in which he arranged it.

He didn't said a word about it after they'd first discussed where the future might lead them until he walked into her detachment one afternoon with two bags, three dogs and no warning. Her staff had taken his sudden appearance in their stride - it was the third time he'd visited in six months and they had long got over their initial shyness around him - but she'd nearly hit him when he slipped into her office without knocking while she was intent on figuring out exactly what was meant by a particularly wordy email.

"You what?" she'd exclaimed loudly when he'd said that he was in Edmonton because he'd just transferred to a nearby town.

"Don't worry," he'd said, carrying on his explanation as if she hadn't spoken, "it's in a different district to this, I made sure of that."

"I'll damn well worry if I want to," she'd muttered savagely, not too pleased at that Fraser had made the decision without at least letting her know he was planning to make it. "Why didn't you tell me?" she'd asked after a moment's silence in which Fraser had stood characteristically still and silent.

"Because surprises shouldn't all be unwelcome," he'd said simply.

Meg had snorted and left it at that. She snorted again when she realised that the entire of her staff had probably heard her immediate reaction to Fraser's appearance and subsequent announcement. It couldn't be helped, she reflected with a sigh: they would either accept it as perfectly ordinary or their relationship would be considered doomed because of it. Given that her staff had taken the trouble to get to know Fraser - despite her warning when he'd first visited, they had decided to find out the hard way exactly what police work with Sergeant Benton Fraser looked like - she suspected that the former possibility might actually be the prevalent opinion. Somehow that was reassuring.

Despite his transfer, she knew Fraser missed the wilderness, and Fraser respected her enough that he didn't try to hide how much he looked forward to any excuse to head north. She made a point of accompanying him once or twice a year for a week or ten days, and had to admit that she had rather enjoyed the experiences than otherwise. The idea of living out in the wilderness still terrified her - she was a city girl after all - but sometimes, when Fraser was clearly homesick, she considered the possibility of a promotion - her last, she knew - allowing her to finish a high-flying career in good style, while Fraser returned permanently to the land he loved so much. She always dismissed those thoughts as preposterous: her limited knowledge of the country and its people automatically disqualifying her.

Birthdays had long been lonely affairs: many had not been celebrated; one had been memorable only as the day her cover had been blown. She'd even refused for nearly two years to tell Fraser when it was - and goodness knew that not giving in to a pleading look from his blue eyes was difficult. He'd promised never to make a fuss of it - and so far he hadn't really, just wished her many happy returns and gave her an extra kiss. In typical Fraser fashion, he'd also only made one comment about the scars on her wrists - on her birthday, incidentally, but, since that was before he had known the dual significance of the date, she couldn't hold him responsible for his bad timing.

He'd noticed her rubbing absently at the scars on her wrists, her face sad. Taking her hands in his, he'd gently pressed a kiss to the inside of each wrist.

"Handcuffs," he'd observed, and Meg knew that he'd come to that conclusion months before, even though this was the first time he'd said anything out loud. "The were fastened too tight. You were captive for about a week." His even tone only showed how much control he could exert when he chose; it did not require any deep analysis to conclude that, even though he knew it unachievable, Fraser was probably wishing he could bring some who had harmed her to some sort of justice.

"Twelve days, the first was my forty-seventh birthday," she'd replied sadly, unsurprised when Fraser's eyes had flicked up to hers, filled with horror - not at her, but in sympathy with her, she knew - and pain. "They used rope after a bit - I can't remember how long, time could not be measured."

"You are unbelievably brave," was all Fraser had said before slipping his arms around her and gently pulling her close against him. Meg had bit her lip hard to keep the tears at bay: the memories were painful, the scars - both visible and hidden - deep, yet Fraser accepted her weaknesses, admired her strengths, and allowed that at times they would not understand each other. She did her best to not doubt herself, with varying success.

"Fraser," Meg had said after a few moment's quiet. She knew that this was not going to be an easy conversation, but she also knew that it had to be said at some point, and now seemed as good as any other time. With Fraser's excellent memory, they would never have to return to a topic that could only bring them both pain. "My back's a mess," she'd murmured, "you know they beat me," he'd seen the scars, but had never asked about them.

"Was that all?" Fraser asked.

"All that matters," Meg had said, unwillingly.

"They raped you," Fraser said softly.

"Yes," Meg had sighed and closed her eyes briefly as she collected her thoughts, "I really don't remember much of the whole ordeal though; it all merged together after the first day or so," she bit her lip, considering whether she should continue; she was sure Fraser's eyes would already be filled with tears; if she continued they would overflow. "I was barely conscious for much of it - if they raped me, it was barely more traumatic than the beatings - and without the direct pain, it was easier to escape. They fed me gruel now and again, but I wasn't allowed to sleep - bright lights, incessant noise. I retracted into myself." She paused for a moment, willing her thoughts away from the unpleasant memories. "When we were being trained in anti-interrogation techniques, they advised holding on to some memory from our childhood," she continued more lightly. "I tried that in training and very quickly found out that you had a much stronger hold on me: I must say I did wonder whether it would be enough so many years later."

"It was," Fraser stated simply, eyes damp but voice steady, proud of Meg's strength, even while he shuddered at the thought of what she had suffered.

"Yes."

"What did you remember?" Fraser inquired, curious though determined not to pry if she wished to say no more.

"The day on the train, of course - the horse car, grieving for you when I thought you were dead, everything; explaining about Cloutier - the day I went to your apartment; that afternoon on Sam Thorne's replica of the Bounty; semaphore," she'd rattled off, "those were the particular instances, particular images that I could bring before my mind's eye, almost at will. But there was also your unswerving determination to do what was right; whether or not it was otherwise convenient. There must have been thousands of instances where you'd said `no' to me - or did not contradict something I said, but simply raised an eyebrow and proceeded to take a liberal interpretation of the orders I'd given - in order to aid others," she took a deep breath and continued slowly. "They formed no coherent pattern, but every now and again, when I thought there was no more, I'd see your face with a new expression - or an old expression in a new setting - know it had happened and somehow find the will to keep what little I did know to myself, endure the pain rather than betray the trust that had been placed in me," she finished with a sigh - the confession had been exhausting, all she wanted to do was sleep, preferably without Fraser getting up at silly o'clock to chase some case he'd been mulling over. "Don't leave me, tonight," she'd murmured against Fraser's shoulder.

"I won't if I don't have to," Fraser said softly, "you're far too grouchy if you have nightmares," he had teased lightly, slipping his fingers through hers and rubbing a thumb absently against the back of her hand; affection taking any sting out of his comment. Just under a year later she told him when her birthday was.

This year her birthday fell on a Saturday. She was fifty-two - getting on, but still ten years from retirement. With her service record, she could have retired when she'd returned from her undercover work abroad, but the memories had been too strong: she'd needed something to keep her from dwelling on the cruelty she'd seen and had to acquiesce in. Four and a half years of being back with the RCMP and she was simply enjoying her work too much to want to stop.

Although she knew Fraser would heed her request to not make a big deal of her birthday, she strongly suspected that, since they both had the day off, he would do something to mark the day and make it a little special.

"Come on," Fraser said, poking his head around the kitchen doorframe and startling Meg out of her reverie. "Dogs need walking."

Three yaps signalled that their three dogs - one of Diefenbaker's sons, a granddaughter and a great-grandson - agreed with Fraser.

"Coming," Meg said, as she hopped off the tall stool she'd been perched on. She slipped her feet into a pair of well worn boots and laced them quickly. When she stood, Fraser was holding her coat and she slipped her arms into the sleeves. It was one of his habits: she'd found it annoying at first, but he'd looked so hurt the one time she'd asked him to stop doing it, that she'd never objected again; now it was simply part of the routine, albeit one that the part of her that objected, strongly, to being called `darling' frequently rolled its eyes at. She told it to be quiet, and calmed her conscience by stubbornly taking the dogs out every evening, no matter what the weather was like and ensuring that Eliza got a good walk at lunchtime when she came to work with her.

They followed one of their longer routes, heading out of town then looping back across the fields. The day was clear and the air fresh, the light dusting of snow squeaking slightly under their feet as they walked, the dogs dashing around as they pleased. On their return through town, they stopped, as they often did, at a coffee shop that they favoured. Fraser had been quieter than usual, but Meg hadn't thought much of it: he often worried over cases or other problems as he walked: his sister's family; Buck's health; the courses he ran at the Depot - all would make him quiet. They ordered their normal coffees and sat in companionable silence, sipping their drinks with the dogs sat beside them.

"Meg?" Fraser asked softly.

"Yes, Ben," Meg replied, knowing from experience that he had a tendency to hesitate if she didn't show that she was paying attention to what he was about to say.

Ben worried at his tooth with his tongue for a moment before placing a small square box on the table in front of him: navy blue with an ochre coloured bow.

"Is that what I think it is?" Meg whispered.

"That depends on what you think it is," Fraser replied with the smallest trace of a smile. "Pearson, `Liza, Clark," Fraser snapped his fingers and tapped the table on either side of him. Three furry faces followed six paws up on to the table top, eyes watching the humans intently.

Meg was amused and intrigued - she knew Fraser had been spending extra time working with the dogs over the last couple of months - apparently he'd been teaching old dogs new tricks rather than reviewing what they already knew. She stayed silent, glad that the café was quiet this early in the morning.

"Inspector Meg Thatcher," Fraser said eventually, keeping his eyes firmly on her face, "will you do me the great honour of consenting to become my wife?"

"Sergeant Benton Fraser," Meg said, her mind racing though she never doubted her answer, "why would I want to do otherwise?" she asked gravely before allowing a broad grin to spread across her face.

"Oh, I don't know," Fraser muttered, "perhaps because I interfere too often and cause havoc, so I don't get home for dinner when I should."

"I wouldn't have it any other way," Meg said merrily. "Yes, of course I'll marry you," she added, making absolutely sure that Fraser could not misinterpret her response. Fraser didn't say anything, he couldn't, just looked at Meg across the small table. His eyes sparkled, and Meg didn't know whether with unshed tears or simply happiness - somehow she suspected both.

"Now do I get to open the box?" she asked a little mischievously.

Fraser nodded and pushed the box towards her; stroking the dogs' heads once he had done so.

Meg opened the box slowly, unsure of what to expect: nestled in the black silk lining was a simple wide gold band with three small stones: a ruby flanked by two diamonds.

"It's beautiful," she breathed. Fraser's message was clear: blue with yellow trim, gold, red and white: their common ground was the uniform they wore and the flag they served. "Do I have to put it on myself?" she inquired.

"No," Fraser murmured, before he stood and walked round the table to stand next to Meg. He reached out with both hands, taking the box from Meg with one and one of her hands with the other. A gentle tug encouraged Meg to her feet. He kept his eyes on Meg's face as he carefully removed the ring from its box and slipped it on to the third finger on her left hand. "There," he whispered almost reverently, "how's that?"

Meg didn't know what to say so she simply slipped her arms round Fraser's waist and hugged him tight. "Thank you," she managed eventually.

"Happy Birthday," Fraser said against her hair.

"I've had worse," Meg managed with a small giggle.

The leisurely walk back to their apartment was almost silent: Meg felt as if she was walking on air, held down only by the presence of Fraser's arm beneath her hands. She didn't dare look up at him, fearing she'd break into peals of laughter if she saw Fraser's face - his grin likely to be broader than her own. The dogs, sensing the light-heartedness of the morning, pranced around their feet, yapping and bouncing madly, their tails waving like banners.

"They look like they could go for another walk," Meg said mildly as they reached their apartment block.

"Yes," Fraser agreed, "but Maggie and Ray are coming later, and we've both been so busy these last few weeks that the place is a relative shambles."

Meg allowed herself a short groan, housework was not her favourite occupation.

"I'm happy to tidy up if you want to take the dogs further," Fraser offered.

"No, that's not fair," Meg said without hesitation, "I'll come in."

Fraser dug his keys out of his pocket and held the door for the dogs and Meg. They checked their post and quickly climbed the stairs to the second floor.


	2. Secret messages

Much of the rest of the day was spent cooking and tidying. Maggie, Ray and Suki arrived promptly at half past five, having left their two children to be doted on by Ray's parents. Amidst the general hubbub of meeting, followed by a short walk for the dogs, Meg thought the ring on her left hand had gone unnoticed. It wasn't that she was afraid that Maggie or Ray would disapprove, their delight when she and Fraser had started dating had been unfeigned, but she was still trying to take it in herself; discussing it just seemed too much.

As she and Maggie set the table while Fraser, aided or hindered by Ray and the dogs, added the finishing touches to their meal, Meg realised that her hopes had been ill-founded. It wasn't surprising really; Maggie shared more than stubbornness and determination with her brother, she was as observant as him too.

"So my brother finally asked you to marry him," Maggie observed quietly, causing Meg to drop the handful of cutlery she held.

"Yes," said Meg, after she'd swallowed to dislodge the nervous lump that had suddenly formed in her throat.

"I'm glad," Maggie replied, ignoring Meg's initial reaction. "Do you know how long he's been carrying that ring around for?" she asked once Meg had regained some of her equilibrium and was setting the last place.

"I haven't a clue," she replied honestly, glancing across at her friend and future sister-in-law.

"Nearly three years," said Maggie.

"What?" Meg squeaked. She was astounded and didn't know what surprised or concerned her most: that Fraser had taken so long to come to the point; that he'd managed to keep a secret from her for so long or that Maggie had clearly had known her brother's intentions. Of course, secrets and Frasers went hand in hand, but even so, this was more than usually reticent of them.

"I think he was worried about your career," Maggie explained when Meg said nothing more.

Meg snorted, Fraser's unending concern for everyone except himself was once again wearing its irritating aspect. "Well, I'll be the one filing the notification with Ottawa," she said with a resigned sigh after a moment's silence.

"That's what I told him," Maggie said with a lop-sided grin. Fraser's avoidance of RCMP politics was almost as legendary as himself. It wasn't exactly avoidance; he just didn't pay any heed to the power games Meg dealt with: he worked for Justice - no matter who was at fault, and dutifully filled in the required paperwork. "Oh," Maggie added almost as an afterthought as she left to join her husband and brother in the kitchen, "have you found the inscription yet?"

Meg was dumbfounded - she felt that her future sister-in-law knew too much, but she couldn't resent either Fraser: they'd learnt to be so careful about not disclosing anything that would lead to a suspicion of their actual relationship that she could forgive them for hiding almost anything without a moment's hesitation. She pulled her reading glasses out of her pocket, slipped the ring off and examined it closely: engraved in tiny letters on the inside of the band were seven words: Maintiens le droit avec tout ma cœur.

Tears filled her eyes and she brushed at them impatiently as she removed her glasses. It was a double message, and true for both of them: at first reading, a simple statement of their approach to their duties; split into the two constituent phrases, a message of love and a reminder that nothing should usurp the law. She slipped the ring back on her finger, knowing that she would insist on the same message being engraved on both their wedding rings.

"Meg?" Fraser asked softly from the doorway; he'd come to find her when she hadn't appeared in the kitchen soon after Maggie.

"Oh Ben," she said softly, looking up at him. Hearing the tears in her voice, Fraser slowly crossed the room to take Meg's hands in his.

"What is it?" he asked gently, a hundred possible things that Maggie could have said to upset Meg crossing his mind.

"The inscription," sniffed Meg, "it's perfect." She gave up trying to hold the tears back and hid her face against her fiancé's shoulder. Fraser gathered her close.

"It's us," he whispered in her ear, confirming what was already obvious, and Meg could hear the tears lurking in his unusually rough voice.

"You know it's going on our wedding rings too, don't you?" she asked a few moments later, her voice muffled against Fraser's chest.

"I love you too, Inspector Meg Thatcher," was the only reply. And really, Meg thought, there wasn't much more that could be said: seven short words summed up everything they believed in - both alone and together. The message on her ring was the acknowledgement of the two things that made them each who and what they were: written as they were, the words expressed a world - and nearly twenty years - of understanding (and frequently misunderstanding), respect, acceptance (sometimes grudging, especially when they'd been posted to Chicago) and love. A minute or two later, Meg collected herself, straightened and let Fraser wipe the tears from her cheeks before they joined Ray and Maggie in the kitchen just in time to carry the dishes through.

"So what are you going to wear for your wedding?" Maggie asked as they were finishing dessert. There was no misunderstanding of who the question was aimed at, no one could ever doubt that her brother would wear full dress uniform on his wedding day.

"I don't know," Meg hedged, "Ben only proposed this morning so I really haven't had time to get around to thinking about that." Not to mention that with her scars any white dress thoughts she'd cherished as a young woman had been dismissed.

"Oh, come on, Meg," Maggie said with a laugh, "every girl has some dream, some idea, of the dress she's going to be married in." Meg shot a panicked glance at Fraser who winked.

"No, don't tell me..." Ray started and trailed off with a horrified groan.

"Red serge," Maggie, Fraser and Meg said simultaneously; dismay, pride and joy the dominant emotions in their voices.

Ray rolled his eyes and hid his head in his hands. He wondered why Meg Thatcher couldn't still be the Ice Queen, then she would have kept Fraser at arm's length and none of this would have happened, but that would not have done Fraser much good. Or she would have behaved as everyone expected a bride to, worn a beautiful white dress, looking far prettier than she could in dress uniform. Maggie would have been one of several bridesmaids, and have worn a dress too - or perhaps not; his wife had worn red serge for their wedding, but that had been a very quiet affair with Lieutenant Welsh and Buck Frobisher as the only guests. He couldn't deny that he was happy for his best friend and brother-in-law, but a decent sized wedding with the main parties all in red serge was his idea of ridiculous: dedication to duty going far too far.

"I'll be, like, the only person wearing normal clothes," he said despondently.

"Nonsense, Ray," Fraser said, "Ray Vecchio will be there too; so will Lieutenant Welsh and some of the other detectives we worked with in Chicago."

"I know," Ray said, forcing himself to stay calm, "but you three will be in uniform, and Buck will give Meg away - I know he's retired, but he'll be in uniform even so - and don't get me started on the dogs, cos I have no idea what you're going to find for Suki and Clark to do since Pearson and Eliza will no doubt have red bows round their necks and will be guarding a ring a piece. You don't want to have Suki in a mood, I can tell you that." Suki, sitting by Maggie, gave a whine and glared at Ray, not impressed by his assessment of her manners.

"I'm sure that so long as the situation is explained to them properly, Suki and Clark won't be too upset," Fraser pointed out, "besides, we haven't made any decisions on when or the actual format of the ceremony, although your idea about the rings has a certain appeal."

"Or," Meg suggested, her eyes glinting as she played devil's advocate, "you could wear your uniform too - that should make you feel less out of place."

"I'll think I'll stick to a tux', thanks," Ray said stiffly, even though he knew Meg was teasing him.

"Suit yourself," Meg said with a shrug.

"Why Fraser needs me as best man, I don't know," Ray grumbled as they sat in the lounge drinking coffee.

"Because some things only a best friend can do," Fraser replied.

"Maggie, you'll be my bridesmaid, won't you?" Meg asked, suddenly unsure that her implicit assumption would have been understood.

"If you're sure that's what you want," Maggie replied - that they knew each other was a result of Fraser's friendship with her and her husband; that they'd become close friends in their own right was not generally known.

"It is," Meg stated firmly, "you're certainly my closest friend."

"What of Betty and Jane?" Maggie asked, naming Meg's two oldest friends whom she had met the previous year: Meg been at school with Jane and had shared a flat with Betty for a few years shortly after she'd joined the RCMP.

"I've barely been in contact with them for the past fifteen years," Meg said a little sadly, "and they don't even know that I was ever stationed abroad apart from Chicago: the Christmas and birthday cards they received while I was away were all written while I was on leave and then posted from Ottawa." She'd drifted apart from them long before she'd joined the CSIS as first her work took precedence and then they'd each married and had children; their families becoming more important than an old friend who often arrived late or had to dash off when they arranged to meet up.

"Meg," Maggie asked as she dried the dishes that Meg had just washed, "can I ask you a question?"

"Sure," Meg replied absently, more of her attention focused on the evasive teaspoon at the bottom of the sink than the strange reticence that would lead to a request to ask a question rather than the question.

"How long have you been in love with my brother? I know since before we met."

"Maggie!" Meg exclaimed, not exactly shocked, but still alarmed by the question. "When we worked together it would have been inappropriate to have any sort of feelings for him, I was his commanding officer," she said stiffly.

"I know," Maggie said apologetically, "Buck told me about the train," she admitted with a nervous glance at her friend.

"The sly old fox," Meg said with a soft laugh. "You're right, of course," she said after a moment's hesitation. She sighed before she continued: "I knew I loved him, was even in love with him years ago, but it wouldn't have been appropriate. After the train, I was so determined to act professionally that I forced myself to push him away; every so often he'd find a way to remind - no, not exactly remind, nudge - me about it, but I wouldn't allow the distraction. It was dangerous for both of us."

Maggie dried the dishes in silence, considering something that her husband had told her one day shortly after they'd been told that Meg had joined the CSIS. He'd said that he didn't think Fraser would ever marry now, when she'd asked, he'd muttered something indistinct about some unintelligible reference to an incident with a train and, when she had pressed for more information said that whatever it was, it was before he knew Fraser.

"Did my brother know?" she asked.

"No," Meg replied without thinking. "Wait," she said more slowly, "he might have. We were trying to figure out a murder that Lieutenant Welsh, Ray and I had witnessed while Fraser was busy chasing the distraction - a purse snatcher."

Maggie nodded, "The one where the perpetrator used an inushuk as cover," she said; both Ray and Benton had told her the story, several times, although, as with many stories involving Benton, something had again been deemed immaterial to the case and consequently edited out. Ray had told a version of the story when trying to explain that he still treasured his time with his ex-wife; her brother used it once to illustrate the use of hypnosis, and another time to tease Ray about encounters with aliens. In none of the versions could she remember a reference to an incident with a train or mention that Meg's relationship with her brother had ever been anything other than strictly professional.

"Yes," Meg agreed, "I'm afraid to say that I zoned out completely while we were discussing motivations; went rambling on about how even platonic friendship could be strong enough to induce someone to murder, and decided to make Ben a case in point. I think I said something about never being able to hurt him before I came to my senses. Francesca Vecchio was there - she hung around Ben whenever she could - and made him explain that he thought I was referring to an incident on a train."

"Aha," Maggie said nodding; several pieces of the puzzle of Meg and Benton's early relationship confirmed. "Thank you," she said once everything had been put away without another word, "for trusting me," she explained when Meg looked at her blankly.

"You're my friend," Meg said simply, a little surprised. "And Ben's sister," she added a second later, "I think that I could trust only Ben and Buck Frobisher more than I can trust you." Without waiting for Maggie's reply, she slipped out the kitchen door back into the lounge.

Lying in bed later that night, Meg asked a question that had been running around her mind since Maggie had told her how long Fraser had been carrying the ring around for.

"Ben, Maggie told me you'd been carrying my ring around for nearly three years. If it took you that long to ask, how long before then had you decided to ask?"

Fraser opened his eyes to look down into Meg's face. Seeing only genuine interest mixed with a bit of amusement but no hint of hurt or disappointment, he did not prevaricate and try to hide the relevant information in a sea of words.

"About two days after you left Buck's on your way here," he replied. "Of course, there were a lot more `ifs' at that point," he admitted, "it took me months to decide on the ring though - it couldn't be any old ring."

"And the inscription?" she asked.

"Buck's idea, partly. I stayed with him for a few days when that escaped prisoner took me to Hay River," he explained, naming the town that Sergeant Buck Frobisher had retired to and where Meg had found out about the second time Ben had been a serious embarrassment to the RCMP and the subsequent restrictions on his movements. "It was about six months after I'd transferred here and he asked straight out when I was planning to marry you. I hadn't really thought about it - beyond knowing that I would ask you eventually, but he remarked that it should not be forgotten that the RCMP is central to both our characters and our relationship."

Meg snorted softly. "You never do anything by halves, do you?" she asked.

"Not usually," Fraser replied, "although I am hoping that our wedding will be rather quieter than my father's funeral - it felt as if nearly half the force was there."

"And you were the only one not drinking," Meg said softly, raising herself up on one elbow to place a soft kiss on her fiancé's cheek. "I think I'd rather elope than have almost every officer you, I or your father ever worked with at our wedding."

"You know I still sometimes wonder where I would be if Collins hadn't thought your shooting well above average," Fraser murmured after a moment's quiet.

"Knee deep in snow and loving it," Meg replied promptly.

"You may well be right," Fraser agreed with a smile: he knew they both considered themselves extremely fortunate with how the last five years had turned out, but they had learnt not to play `what if' too much although Meg always won - Fraser assumed it was her CSIS training that had taught her to work with what she had rather than consider too much what might have been.

"I love you, Benton Fraser," Meg whispered, settling herself more comfortably against Fraser's side.

"And I you," Fraser replied, raising Meg's hand to his lips and placing three kisses as he did every night: knuckles, wrist, palm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation of the French: Uphold the law with all my heart.


	3. Conditions and Confesssions

It took until Wednesday for Ottawa to react to the news that Inspector Meg Thatcher was engaged to Sergeant Benton Fraser. But instead of the formal acknowledgement she'd expected, she received a phone call.

"Ben," she said that evening as they finished making supper, "I had a rather peculiar phone call from Ottawa today."

"As did I," replied Fraser, glad Meg had brought the topic up.

"The proposition requires a lot of thought," said Meg carefully as she split green beans equally between their two plates. "When they told me I was guaranteed the promotion, I thought `fair enough', when they said where to, I was afraid I was going to say something impolitic."

"I quite understand that the prospect of leaving a large, well connected city to move to a town of maybe a couple of thousand souls, surrounded by hundreds of square kilometres of almost uninhabited wilderness is rather daunting," Fraser said sympathetically.

"You misunderstand me, Ben," said Meg, turning to hand him his plate. "My objection was - and is - that I know almost nothing about the type of place you describe and therefore am entirely unqualified for the job."

"But those are exactly the types of community with which I am most experienced," said Fraser as he pulled out Meg's chair for her.

"That's exactly what the A.C. said," Meg told him, "he said they'd been waiting for nearly two years for us to get engaged, but I'm still not convinced." There were other questions that she would have liked answered: like how they knew that she and Fraser were likely to become engaged; and why they had waited until they were engaged before suggesting the transfer, but they were tangential to the proposition that they had before them.

"Why not?" asked Fraser, one eyebrow raised as he took his seat across the small table.

"Three reasons: firstly, how much of the time would you actually be there, in the next room, or at least no more than a phone call away, to answer any questions I might have; secondly, what exactly can I expect from this posting; lastly, do we really want to have to work together again?" Meg watched Fraser's face carefully as he considered the concerns she'd raised.

After a long while, during which they both ate thoughtfully, Fraser resumed the conversation: "You are right, as usual. You know that I would be off and away more than at the detachment, and you know what that means for getting hold of me if something goes wrong. Much as I would love to be in the North again, there are a few things I would never ask you to do me: take a transfer for my sake is one."

"And the others?" asked Meg, happy to be distracted, if only for a few minutes.

"Change your name; give up a job you love," Fraser ticked the two off his fingers, then added one more for the first mentioned. He closed his eyes briefly and Meg knew that he was checking to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything. He unfurled a fourth finger: "Lie - for or on my behalf," he concluded, opening his eyes and meeting her gaze.

"I knew the last two," Meg said with a grin: that had been an implicit understanding since the memorable dinner partly at Buck Frobisher's. "Although I'd be honoured to take your name, I must admit that I am rather attached to my own," she said with a smile.

"I know," said Fraser, "besides, how would the force manage? Two Frasers at one post?"

"I believe it is not so very uncommon," replied Meg dryly, "but if you expected me to behave in true Fraser fashion, I can see it would create a lot of headaches. And, guess what?" Meg couldn't help but giggle slightly as the thought crossed her mind, "as commanding officer, I could always delegate the majority of the report writing to my husband."

"Oh dear," murmured Fraser "we miscounted."

Meg looked surprised for a moment before she caught up with Fraser's thinking. "Maggie," she sighed; she'd been so busy trying to figure out her reaction to the proposed transfer that she'd forgotten that the assistant commissioner had also mentioned that if she and Fraser took the transfer, it was expected that Corporal Maggie MacKenzie would join their staff soon after. That Fraser had forgotten too was reassuring. "But what about Ray?" Meg wondered aloud.

"I have no idea," Fraser said honestly.

"The question still remains," said Meg after a minute or two of silence, "whether we really want to end up in a direct chain of command again?"

"It wouldn't be like Chicago," Fraser said mildly.

Meg nodded before she voiced another, more worrying thought: "I can't help but wonder exactly why they want to get the three of us at a single post. Why to they want - or need - to put two of the best wilderness officers in one place, particularly when neither is currently at a wilderness posting?" Meg frowned and bit her lip, uncertain and worried: something bigger was going on, of the three of them, she might not be the one to figure out how all the pieces fitted together, but she would be the one to finalise the reports and bear the ultimate responsibility if people harmed or even killed as a result of failing to act.

"The same thought had crossed my mind," Fraser admitted uncomfortably, running his right thumbnail backwards across his eyebrow. "I can think of two possible reasons, neither particularly reassuring: either there is something going on that needs to be stopped - the fact that Maggie and I never give up and your experience with the CSIS - sorry," he added, noting Meg's brief shudder at the allusion to her eight years of undercover work, "making us a team of officers who have a good knowledge of the area, environment and customs, and a record of working in difficult circumstances; or the whole situation is entirely more sinister and there is an expectation that one or more of us will not survive for long."

Meg gasped at Fraser's last words. "But what about Robbie and Caroline?" she asked in a horrified whisper.

"I can only presume that Ray's parents would be expected to take custody of them if that situation ever arose," Fraser said sadly. "Besides," he added, "so far as we know, our superiors haven't even considered what Ray will do if Maggie does take the transfer."

"Do they even know that Maggie's married?" Meg asked, an eyebrow raised: since Ray was not RCMP, formal notification of their relationship would not necessarily have been filed.

"They must do," Fraser said, "she's been on maternity leave twice."

"They may not even have factored them into it," Meg said, anger lending her voice a hard edge, and her hand closed fiercely around her knife handle.

"There's nothing we can do tonight, Meg," Fraser pointed out softly.

Meg slowly released her grasp on her knife, wriggling her fingers to restore the blood flow fully.

"I know," she said eventually before she stood up. "My turn to wash," she said and collected their plates.

"Hey," Fraser murmured a few minutes later, slipping his arms round Meg's waist and resting his chin on the top of her head.

"You know that makes me feel short," Meg said, feigning grumpiness.

Fraser said nothing, just dropped a kiss on the top of Meg's head. Once she'd finished washing the last of their dishes, Meg sighed and leaned back into Fraser's solid chest behind her.

"We need to visit your sister before we make any decision about this transfer," she said, turning in Fraser's arms and leaning back to gave up into his eyes.

"Yes," Fraser agreed, "and maybe a trip up there ourselves - get a feel for the place; I haven't been there for years."

"Hmm," agreed Meg, slipping her hands up Fraser's arms to rest then lightly on his shoulders, brown eyes bridge and sparkling, "you're so sensible."

"And you're not?" Fraser retorted, eyebrows raised.

"I was responsible for you falling off a train..." Meg reminded him.

"So I recall," Fraser replied, "maybe I shouldn't be planning to marry you after all," he mused after a moment. Meg looked at Fraser's face carefully - his usually impassive mask was firmly in place, except for the smallest crinkles at the corners of his eyes - anyone else would probably have missed them, but she didn't.

"I think I got my punishment at the time," she said, "those fifteen minutes when I thought you were dead count among the worst of my life. Certainly the worst of my time with the RCMP."

"I've disappeared without warning, many times - my status while chasing the Wailing Yankee and on the way to the rendezvous at Franklin Bay was at least questionable." Fraser shifted uncomfortably; his escapades with Ray had lead to trouble more often than not. "I'm still not sure how that those cases were significantly different," he said, relaxing his hold on Meg's waist to tug at an earlobe, "my partnerships with both Rays often lead to trouble - in capital letters."

"Don't I know it," Meg said with a fond smile, "but I knew you were with someone you could trust: your friend and partner."

"It seems," Fraser observed quietly after a pause, "that I have been particularly... fortunate... in my friends and partners..."

"Excepting, perhaps, Vecchio's bad habit of shooting you," Meg said without thinking. She bit her lip nervously when her brain caught up with her mouth and she realised exactly what she'd said and the implied reminder of a time when he'd not been so lucky. "Sor..." she got out before Fraser placed a finger gently on her lips.

"Ray only shoots me when I miscalculate," Fraser reminded her, eyes softening as he leant down and pressed a gentle kiss on Meg's lips. Meg slipped one hand from Fraser's shoulder to the back of his neck, fingers toying with the curls of hair there.

"You need a haircut," she observed.

"One more thing for the weekend," agreed Fraser.

"So what does a superintendent actually do at a wilderness posting?" she asked, turning the conversation back to the serious matter of their transfer.

"As with all postings, it largely depends on the senior officer: their personality more than their rank," Fraser explained, carefully considering what he knew of commissioned officers in the far North. "Commissioned or senior non-commissioned officers usually have large remits and are responsible for coordinating policing over large areas, often many thousand square kilometres. Policing those areas is hard work; the distances are large and many of the inhabitants earn very little: cash is not necessarily the most important asset. Yet the rich and largely unexplored resources of the Northern wilderness can make the land itself a lucrative investment. Unfortunately unscrupulousness is slowly destroying those communities who have lived there for many generations. There are other problems too, many social, many associated with prohibition that still exists in some areas - it's not the solution to alcohol related crime and health problems: banning something nearly always makes getting it to the consumer more lucrative - and the consumer and their society suffers more than anyone."

"I'm starting to wonder whether any external influence - the white man's greed - can be at all beneficial to some of these communities," Meg said sadly. She had done some research into the nature of the posting: looking at the RCMP reports from the posting they were being offered and others across the northern wilderness. Fraser's reports amongst them: the common themes were as he had outlined; the effort made not always in proportion to the benefit that could result - except in the case of four officers: two Frasers, a Frobisher and a MacKenzie.

Fraser was thoughtful for a while; he'd considered the problem many times and occasionally discussed it with his father, Buck or Maggie. They'd never been able to come to a satisfactory conclusion though - the matter was complex; deeply rooted in historical events and resulting prejudices. Some of which Meg would be subject to if they moved.

"I think it is necessary, now," he said. "They can no longer return to isolation. Whether for good or evil, they are part of a greater group of people. Education can help; but even that is not properly understood and is therefore resented; many of those who pursue their education beyond the most rudimentary level leave."

"It gives hope for another life rather than impressing an understanding and appreciation of what there already is."

"Yes, and riches are not easily obtained by following a traditional way of life."

"Big corporations exploit the land and its people," Meg mused, her voice soft and sad.

"Unfortunately, yes. The communities hurt often do not have the money or the knowledge to protect their interests."

"One more job for responsible police officers then?"

Fraser nodded, his expression grim: his father had been murdered because he threatened to expose the truth behind the death of a significant fraction of a caribou herd - a herd that was vital to the survival of a community. He had been helped by so many of the inuit as a child; later, respect for their beliefs had sometimes come into contention with his duty; the two cultures were not incompatible, but they held different values. He struggled with the incongruity more when in an urban environment; his oath to uphold the law strangely more likely to run against the grain of modern rather than traditional values.

"Hmm," Meg was thoughtful for a moment before she tugged Fraser's head back down to hers and teased at his lips.

"You know you're going to complain that you're knackered in the morning if you carry on like this now," Fraser just about managed a coherent sentence.

"I know," Meg said with a small sigh, "but I need to leave the stress of worrying about this transfer behind me for a bit, you're the best distraction I know."

"In which case..." Fraser said, gradually pulling Meg closer to him, "what can I do but oblige?" he asked, his lips mere millimetres from Meg's.

"Nothing," Meg whispered in the fraction of a second before their lips met in a kiss that very quickly went from teasing to demanding.

Half asleep and comfortably sprawled across Fraser's chest, Meg thought back across their relationship - particularly when they'd worked together in Chicago. Fraser had driven her crazy - her feelings for him a confusing tangle of irritation, attraction, respect, envy, trust, responsibility and fear. He'd the potential to make her distrust herself and doubt her professionalism. She remembered the times when she'd spoken to him about men she'd found attractive but whom Fraser had later exposed as criminals: he'd played naïve - whether an act or not, she never had worked out. From an unrelated conversation a few weeks before, it seemed that Fraser's code of honour meant that unless he had direct evidence that particular acts were related to a later - or earlier - crime, those actions were irrelevant. That usually included hers.

On the topic of unprofessional behaviour...

"Oh no," she murmured, causing Fraser to open her eyes and look down at her with concern. "Ben, how many times have you seen me drunk?" she asked.

"Drunk, Meg?"

"Yes, drunk, as in inebriated, intoxicated, wasted, displaying the symptoms of over indulgence of alcoholic beverages," Meg said testily.

Fraser raised a hand and rubbed a thumbnail across an eyebrow and Meg knew he was checking through the entire of their acquaintance to ensure he gave her an accurate answer.

"Twice," he said eventually, dropping his hand to where hers rested against his shoulder and entwining his fingers with hers.

"The first was at the consulate, I'd been out and came back to pick up a bottle of wine..."

"And tell me that you weren't going to make your meeting the following morning," Fraser reminded her.

Meg cleared her throat, "I'm afraid I did not act very professionally," she said apologetically, hiding her face against Fraser's chest.

"Hey," Fraser said softly, tilting Meg's face up with a finger under her chin, "we both survived - our reputations more or less intact," he added with a wry smile.

"More thanks to you than me," Meg said, eyes closed. "The second time was Christmas two years ago, wasn't it?" she said, suddenly afraid. She'd woken up one Saturday morning with what had possibly been the worst hangover of her life and no memory of how she got home.

"Yes," Fraser said and chuckled. They'd arranged for him to go and join Meg at her detachment's Christmas party; their relationship was common knowledge among her staff although only one question had ever been asked - the day after Fraser had left the first time he'd visited and Meg had been a little out of sorts.

"What's so funny?" asked Meg.

"You," Fraser said, the corners of his eyes crinkling and the chuckle turning into a full laugh.

"What did I do?" Meg asked. "Fraser," she snapped when he still gave no answer.

"It wasn't my idea," Fraser protested.

"What wasn't?"

"Getting you drunk," Fraser said.

"W-w-what?" Meg stammered, she wasn't certain whether to be appalled or not that Fraser had at least acquiesced in a plan to get her drunk.

"They only asked me whether I'd be OK to get you home; since I don't drink alcohol, that wasn't going to be a problem," Fraser said more evenly.

"What did I do?" Meg repeated, "wait, I'm not certain I want to know."

"Nothing too bad," Fraser said, his voice reassuring although his eyes were twinkling.

"Fraser," Meg said sternly.

"You ended up dancing on the tables - that is, you danced on a table, then missed your footing," Fraser said, his expression unreadable.

"But if I'd fallen off, I would have had bruises," Meg pointed out.

"That depends entirely what you land on," said Fraser mildly.

"Which means you caught me," Meg murmured, burying her now red face against Fraser's shoulder.

"Or took an excuse to hold the woman I've been in love with for a third of my life," said Fraser, gently tucking a strand of Meg's hair behind her ear.

"You, Benton Fraser," said Meg, tapping at his collar bone with the fingers of her left hand, her ring gleaming bright in the light filtering through from the hallway, "are incorrigible."

"And you, Meg Thatcher," replied Fraser, taking her hand in his and kissing the ring and Meg's fingers, "are entirely too good for me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first time one of my friends met her husband was at a party for those involved in organising a local agricultural show where she danced on the tables; as far as I know, she did not fall off.


	4. Promises to keep

In the end they managed to get the number of people invited to their wedding to a moderate seventy-three: moderate when compared with the original list; and under half were expected to turn up in red serge. Of those who did, some were retired - like Buck Frobisher; Corps Sergeant Major Underhill; Staff Sergeant Meers - Fraser's superior officer at the time of his father's death; the chief superintendent for whom Fraser had combed Chicago for a particular bottle of whisky - but many were still active police officers, albeit ones who, like Fraser and Meg wore several service stars on their sleeves. Gerard was not invited.

Most of their current colleagues were there - they had all been invited, but two detachments could not reasonably be left completely unstaffed, even for a couple of hours on a Saturday. When Fraser had asked Meg who of her staff had drawn the short straw, she had raised an eyebrow and merely commented about the notice taken of rank. Fraser had nodded, his question effectively answered: the eight constables had been left to fight it out amongst themselves.

Many of their acquaintances from Chicago came - all except Elaine retired from police work - they were really Fraser's friends, although Meg knew most of them well enough to be able to hold a reasonable conversation. Welsh was certainly the one she was happiest to see.

After some debate covering ground from expectations to beliefs to practicalities and logistics, they settled for a civil ceremony near where they lived. Meg was surprised when several Inuit families turned up in the week leading up to the ceremony, rather than the day before, and had been relieved when Fraser took charge and arranged for them to be accommodated nearby. She did wonder how much of a hit Fraser's bank balance was taking with the number of guests he was putting up.

Meg found being introduced to so many Inuit - although there were only eleven - in a short space of time slightly unnerving. They were quiet for the most part, their gazes placid and inquisitive - much like Fraser's - but when they did speak their words were carefully weighed and meaningful. She started to wonder what exactly it would be like to live in the North West Territories: with Fraser by her side they would belong to both cultures. She began to think that perhaps, just perhaps, she had enough spirit left for one last adventure - one to last the remaining twenty or maybe thirty years of her life.

When they'd sat down and Fraser, mostly, had explained to the dogs that only Pearson and Eliza would really have any part in the ceremony, Meg suddenly realised how much she understood of what the dogs were saying. Eliza she knew best and found easiest to understand - no wonder really after spending nearly every day of the last four years with her: on Fraser's second day at his current posting, Eliza had insisted on going to work with Meg; since then the only times Eliza hadn't accompanied Meg to work was when Fraser was in the wilderness with all three dogs, or Meg was not in Edmonton.

But still, to be the one to reply to Eliza when she asked about the significance of plain red compared to red with black trim had been almost as much of a surprise to her as to Fraser who'd turned to her a delighted expression on his face. She'd smiled, shrugged and kissed him briefly.

"Love you, love your dogs," she'd murmured. "OK, so Eliza adopted me," she laughed when Eliza objected, saying that she was Meg's dog - or certainly Meg was her human.

"How long have you been able to understand them?" Fraser had asked a moment later.

"I don't know, about a year?" Meg guessed. Eliza gave a whine followed by a short yap.

"'Liza thinks nearer two and a half," Fraser remarked, even though he now knew that interpreting was superfluous.

"And I didn't even notice," Meg mused.

Now Meg stood just outside one of the side doors to the room where friends and colleagues had assemble to witness her marriage to Benton Fraser. She shifted her weight from foot to foot as she ran her cap brim through her hands; she couldn't have said why she was nervous. A quick glance at her watch showed her it was time; she brushed her hair back from her face and settled her cap on her head.

"Ready 'Liza?" she whispered to the dog sitting calmly by her feet. Eliza whined and raised a paw to her nose. Meg nodded and looked through the door to see Maggie standing at the front corner of the chairs. She raised a hand and thumbed her nose; Maggie repeated the gesture. Waiting, Meg knew that Ray was passing the message on to Fraser. A quiet bark made some of the guests jump: Pearson had just mirrored his daughter's earlier motion.

She took a deep breath and walked down the side of the rows of seated guests towards her future sister-in-law, Eliza by her side and Fraser just visible from the corner of her eye. Maggie fell into step behind her as she turned the corner and met Fraser's gaze as they took the last few steps to where they would make their vows.

They both wore full dress uniform: red serge, brown boots, Sam Browne - hers reversed, Fraser with his lanyard perfectly straight. Their medals had come out, a handful heavy on the left breast of each - Fraser's long service and several for fieldwork; her fewer fieldwork medals offset by her CSIS medals. She handed her cap to Maggie who tucked her own stetson under her elbow and held the officer's cap in her hand; Fraser removed his stetson and passed it to Ray: smart, though clearly only slightly more comfortable in his tuxedo than he would have been in his blue uniform.

Their vows made, the official asked about rings.

"Yes," replied Ray Kowalski, feeling slightly ridiculous and glad he was wearing a tux rather than his blue uniform. "Pearson."

Pearson jumped up, placing his front paws on Ray's left arm, and Ray carefully untied the bow of black-edged red ribbon from around the dog's neck. Slipping the ring off the ribbon, he handed it to Fraser who proceeded to gently slip it onto Meg's finger above her engagement ring.

"Maintiens le droit," he whispered.

"Eliza," Maggie said a moment later and Eliza mirrored her father's actions with Maggie untying the plain red bow. In silence, and keeping her gaze fixed on Fraser's blue eyes as much as she could, Meg slipped the plain gold band onto the third finger of Fraser's left hand.

"Avec tour ma cœur," Meg whispered when Fraser's ring was in place.

Hands joined, they leant in for the obligatory kiss. In the second before their lips met, and so quietly that, like the previous exchange, no-one else knew of what they said, two short phrases were exchanged:

"Red suits you," Fraser breathed.

"I love you too," replied Meg: summarising over eighteen years of confusion, honesty, resignation and patience; concluded by seven brief months of planning.

Fraser didn't have any idea where they were headed for their three weeks holiday until they changed flights in Toronto although even then Meg refused to say whether they were on their last flight of the outward journey. A bit over eight hours later they watched as green, gold and brown patches grew - fields at the end of harvest, some already ploughed, some with stubble gleaming in the autumn sunlight, some grass, the cows and sheep still grazing. Darker green patches - spattered with red, yellow, orange, brown - were woods, the leaves dying with the coming of winter.

"What is the plan?" Fraser asked as they waited patiently to go through immigration at Heathrow.

"I've booked us into a bed and breakfast near Greenwich Park," Meg said. "It should be relatively quiet - and the park will provide a bit of an antidote to the city. I thought we might spend tomorrow around Greenwich before exploring central London."

"London's a big place," Fraser observed, "how long will we be here fore? The whole three weeks?"

"No," laughed Meg, "curious as I am to see more than a passing glimpse of two railway stations and about six tube stops, I am neither so selfish, nor so enamoured of big cities, as to want to spend the entire of my holiday in one."

It was their turn to present their passports so they said no more until they were through and making their way towards baggage reclaim.

"So three days in London," Fraser summarised, "then what?"

"Well, it's more like four days. We're getting the Caledonian Sleeper on Friday night to Edinburgh."

"Ah," said Fraser, nodding slowly. "This time you'll be able to enjoy your time there."

"It's a beautiful city," Meg said, "I thought it a great shame that I spent most of the time I was there last in hospital, and the few days I could explore, I didn't get far."

"Now you will," Fraser said with a smile. Both cities were places he'd read about and, if he were honest, he had been curious to see them, but never so curious as to make any definite effort to visit. He would have happily acquiesced to a proposed visit, but never been the one to suggest it.

"Yes," agreed Meg. "Then we'll probably rent a car and go up to the Highlands for a few days; then over to the Isle of Skye - the Cuillins have a reputation, I thought it might be a bit different."

"Thank you," Fraser said simply.

"For what?" asked Meg.

"Town and country - for considering."

"You're my husband," replied Meg with an exasperated half-sigh, "what else was I going to do?"

Fraser said nothing, just placed a kiss on Meg's temple.

Meg was tired by the time they reached Greenwich. She half-wished she'd thought to get the express train to Paddington instead of the underground, but when she'd looked at the routes, there really hadn't been much difference in time between the simplest and the fastest options. Coming up the last few steps to the street, Meg was thankful that she'd packed light - not as light as Fraser, but a moderate sized rucksack was still much easier to manage than a bulky case. Somehow, despite their rucksacks, Fraser still managed to wrap an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close to his side. They walked slowly past closed shops, many with a maritime theme. Turning down a side road, they soon found their B&B. A few formalities and they were shown to their room: Meg dropped her bag and sat on the edge of the bed to unlace and pull off her boots before she lay back, her feet just off the floor.

"I'm knackered," she groaned.

"It has been a rather long day," Fraser agreed.

"Travelling always tires me out, I never could figure out why," she mused as she swung her legs up onto the bed.

"Long relatively inactive spells with little stimulus, but still requiring one to stay alert," Fraser suggested in a confident tone which suggested that he'd given some thought to the matter. Meg wasn't especially surprised that he had: this was far from the first time she'd complained of feeling tired after a day's travelling, although usually the distances involved were not nearly so great.

After a late breakfast, they spent the next day wandering around Greenwich: visiting the Maritime museum and the the old observatory; watching the boats on the river; stepping back in time, exploring the old tea clipper in dry dock. Although they were both familiar with the rudiments of British history, it was a peculiar experience: knowing something and seeing the evidence of it were two quite different things. While Canada had been almost uncolonised and time had been measured by the sun and stars; great sums of money had been offered for the technological masters of old Europe to measure - or keep - time under all conditions to facilitate safe travel across the Atlantic. Even the normally imperturbable Fraser had been impressed. In the evening, armed with a map and a guide book, they discussed their plans for the next three days.

The following day, Wednesday, was fine so they walked into central London along the south bank of the Thames. The sky was clear and a cool breeze blew in their faces as they made their way steadily along the pavements, their matching navy pea coats - uniform but with shoulder and rank badges removed - open to the weather. They reached Tower Bridge shortly after midday. They crossed it, Fraser's keen eyes noting the joins where the road split and lifted; past the Tower, Meg remembering some vague story - or legend - associated with ravens, the Tower and bad luck; and continued along the broad path, much busier on this side of the river than the other, that lead upstream. They walked under London Bridge almost without realising it, then doubled back to find the steps that lead from the river path to the bridge itself. Coming up from the relative quiet of the river path to the noise and bustle of the bridge, Fraser cocked his head to one side, listening.

"What is it?" asked Meg.

"Someone running," replied Fraser.

"That's hardly cause for concern," Meg responded dryly, well aware that Fraser still hadn't lost his tendency to interfere in the name of a good cause, despite the fact that she had only had to deal with two weeks' worth of the resulting paperwork over the last fourteen years.

"Not usually, no," agreed Fraser.

They turned left onto London Bridge, eyes scanning over the crowds: several bus loads of tourists were busy taking photos, Tower Bridge, a few hundred metres down river, in the background. Once they'd passed them with apologies and excuses and could see further ahead, Fraser nodded.

"There," he said, indicating a young woman standing with her forearms resting against the bridge, staring blankly down at the river, breathing hard.

"What about her?" Meg asked, curious despite herself. Fraser had certainly been right about someone running: no joggers were to be seen and it was clear that this woman had been the one whose footsteps Fraser had heard.

"She's in trouble," said Fraser.

"Or troubled," commented Meg, knowing Fraser would understand the difference. "How could you tell?" she asked a moment later, once she was certain they were again out of earshot. Fraser stopped and leant against the bridge's parapet, almost mirroring the woman's pose. Meg leant next to him, her eyes on her husband's face as he gazed thoughtfully at the river, glancing occasionally at Meg or towards the centre of the bridge.

"First, the footfalls - they weren't measured or even like someone jogging - more like someone in a panic, with the number of people, some of the unevenness can be accounted for by weaving in and out of the crowd. They were also heavier than would be expected from light shoes," he explained patiently. "Second, her posture and how she's stood almost in the exact centre of the bridge: she knows this area well, but the only other people who stop are clearly tourists." Meg nodded, Fraser's observations made sense. "Lastly, look at her; she doesn't belong."

Meg leant back, looking past Fraser to study the woman standing near the centre of the bridge: long brown hair with irregular paler highlights tied back in a plait; fleece jumper and waistcoat, the sleeves of the jumper pushed up to reveal slim, lightly tanned forearms and a watch on the left wrist; lightweight trousers with a cargo pocket. The only part of her attire that did not look distinctly rural was the plain silver ring on one finger.

"She's wearing walking boots," Meg observed, commenting on perhaps the most noticeable inconsistency.

"Yes. No coat, no bag - she probably works nearby," Fraser added.

"So what do you suppose we do?" asked Meg. "I'll agree that she's clearly upset about something," she added softly after leaning forwards to get a clearer view of the woman's face and noting the clenched jaw and creased brow.

"I'd like a moment to think about that," Fraser said, still looking at the brown water below. Meg took his hand firmly in hers, earning her a surprised look.

"The last time you said that to me," she told him, her voice stern, "you jumped out of the window of a moving train without a word of explanation."

"Ah, I'm sorry about that," murmured Fraser, shifting his weight uncomfortably from foot to foot.

"There's no need to apologise Ben. Strangely enough I do trust your judgement; if I hadn't I never would have listened to you all those years ago," Meg admitted, exasperation softening to fondness as she spoke.

"I suppose the only thing to do is ask her," said Fraser eventually, checking that the young woman was still there.

"I suppose so," Meg agreed, wondering even as she did so whether she wouldn't regret her agreement in a few minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise that this is a rather bitty chapter, but I wanted to avoid lots of short chapters and the start of the next chapter was always fixed. If any of the switches between scenes have been unclear, please let me know and I can see what I can do to make them less awkward.
> 
> Translation of the French:  
> Uphold the law.  
> With all my heart.


	5. Someone else's London

Al stood in the centre of London Bridge, as near as she could figure it, staring moodily at the turbulent brown water swirling into the Pool; racing towards the sea. Down under Tower Bridge, serene in the autumn sun, then onwards, past Greenwich, over the tunnel and under the last bridge at Dartford; on the waters would swirl, past Chatham, past Sheppey and out at last to the North Sea. She'd been told, so often, of the Pool of London, bustling with vessels from all over the world, loading and unloading, the lifeblood of the city. Now all was quiet: tour boats and the occasional barge slipping under the bridge and through HMS Belfast's shadow, shooting along on the strong ebb tide or slowly making their way upstream against it.

If anyone had asked her what she was thinking of, she would have replied promptly with: 'How alike the city and the river are,' or some similar remark pertaining to the heedless, unsympathetic, fluctuating tumult towards an ill-defined goal, with little interest or individuality. But it was London and no one ever asked.

She didn't stir when someone coughed close behind her, even though she'd noted the footsteps that stopped instead of passing briskly by.

"Miss?" a woman asked softly and Al could not place the accent.

Feeling put out at the world, and inclined to snarl at anything that bore any connection to a city and a culture she despised, Al made no acknowledgement of the woman's presence. Unseen to Al, the two people behind her shared a worried glance.

"Miss," the woman spoke again, her tone a little firmer than before and tinged with impatience, "are you all right?"

"Yes," Al snapped, spinning round sharply to face the inquirers - a tall handsome man, his dark hair lightly dashed with grey and, standing slightly behind his right shoulder with her left arm tucked through the man's and her hand resting on his forearm showing two rings, a shorter woman, dark eyed and brown haired. "Not that it's any of your business," she said sharply, before turning on her heel and running back towards the City.

"Oh dear," Fraser murmured.

"Come on," said Meg dropping Fraser's arm as they set off after the woman.

With what concentration she could spare from keeping the woman and Fraser in sight and not colliding with anyone, Meg reflected on just how accurate Fraser's assessment of the woman they were following had been; not that she should have been at all surprised. Judging by the ease with which she navigated the crowded streets - assured and abrupt changes of speed and direction as she avoided everyone she passed or lengthened her stride to leap high over mounds of rubbish waiting to be collected - and the certainty with which she turned down side streets, they were on her home ground. Meg wished she could stop and look around, certain they were in the older part of London, but forced herself to focus on keeping up. She caught up with Fraser standing at the corner of a small side street.

"Don't tell me you lost her," she panted. "If we have, I cannot imagine that she's much other than traumatised," she added once she'd caught her breath.

"No," Fraser replied quietly, "she's about four and a half metres up this street."

"So what do we do?"

"Talk to her, apologise," said Fraser.

"OK," agreed Meg, slipping her hand into Fraser's.

They stepped round the corner and Meg was hardly surprised when the woman stood sharply, straightening up from the wall she had been leaning against. Despite still being somewhat out of breath, she looked as if she were preparing to run again.

"What do you want?" she asked harshly, her accent clearly British, but, like the rest of her, slightly out of place. Meg was reminded of some of the stronger accents she'd come across when she'd been in Edinburgh, but the similarity was inconsistent.

"We'd like to talk with you, if we may," Fraser said, halting a few metres away from her.

"Why?" the woman said with a frown, clearly confused.

"Because although you may not need actual help, it is clear to me that something is troubling you," answered Fraser. "Regards ses yeaux," he murmured to Meg, not taking his eyes off the woman in front of them.

"Pourquoi?" asked Meg.

"Parce qu'elle ne peut pas dissimuler sa peur," Fraser explained.

"Et si c'est peur de nous?" Meg inquired, worried that Fraser's well meant interference might lead to more problems for all of them.

"Je ne pense pas qu'elle a peur de personne," Fraser said. "La societé, le futur, peut-être elle-meme, mais pas deux étrangers."

Al watched the pair and listened carefully to the exchange in French. It had been years since she'd studied French, but she thought she had understood most of what they'd said. She looked steadily at the woman until she raised brown eyes to meet hers.

"Who are you?" she demanded, holding Meg's gaze, "that you ask personal questions of a complete stranger and then follow her when she clearly wants to be left in peace?"

Meg took a breath before she replied, only to be cut off by the woman before she could get a word out.

"Oh, and whether or what I am afraid of is none of your business, nor your husbands," Al said sharply, noting with some amusement that they both looked surprised and a little guilty for a fraction of a second before their faces were schooled to impassiveness.

"Oh dear," Fraser said, glancing at Meg.

"OK," Meg said, taking the lead, "who do you think we are?"

"Bilingual French and English with something approximating an American accent," Al said, ignoring the woman's soft snort. "At I guess I would say you're Canadian - anything more than that - other than that you're probably from an English speaking part since your English does not carry a trace of a French accent, I cannot guess. But the question still remains," she continued more insistently, her tone laced with disdain and sarcasm and her green and brown eyes sharp: "what need, right or business have you accosting a complete stranger - on London Bridge off all places?"

Meg glanced up at Fraser who raised an eyebrow in response.

"It's what he does," she said apologetically.

"And who is 'he' exactly?" Al asked, still hostile, although she was starting to become curious about the two strangers who had broken every unspoken rule of the anonymity of London.

"Sergeant Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian Mounted Police," Fraser said, confirming Al's original supposition of their nationality and relieving Meg of her direct gaze. "Most people just call me 'Fraser.' I have some experience of being out of place," he added thoughtfully; "the first thirty-three years of my life were spent almost entirely in the wildernesses of northern Canada, then my father was murdered and, for reasons that don't need explaining at this juncture, I spent most of the next five years at the Canadian consulate in Chicago before returning home."

"And you are?" Al inquired, turning her gaze to Meg, apparently unmoved by Fraser's story.

"Inspector Meg Thatcher, also RCMP," Meg said crisply. "I know it is disconcerting, but my husband has an uncanny tendency to be right when it comes to those in trouble. Let him help," she urged gently.

"There's nothing you can do," Al said sourly. "Because I have no real control over the situation in which I find myself. I mean it," she added harshly, noting that the two Canadians were looking unconvinced.

"Shall we walk?" Meg suggested, thinking it might be ease some of the tension even if it didn't go far to helping the young woman relax.

"Where to?" Al shot back.

"Wherever you wish," Meg said, "you know London better than we do."

Al snorted. Where she wished to walk was knee deep in heather where the only paths were those the deer and, more rarely, the sheep had made; where her only companion was herself and the deer that fled; her only witnesses the grouse telling her to 'go back' and the occasional eagle soaring placidly high overhead or passing much nearer with a roar of wind rushing through huge outspread wings. Given that was impossible, she though quickly over what she knew of London and tourists. Unfortunately, that happened to be what she avoided when she could.

"What have you already seen of London?" she asked, deciding that tour guiding would be more fun than staring moodily at a computer screen for the remainder of the afternoon - and more use than being rude to her colleagues.

"We're staying at Greenwich," Fraser said, "and spent yesterday exploring there." He noted the way the young woman's expression softened just a fraction: she clearly knew Greenwich and the associations were not all bad. "We walked in along the south bank of the River Thames this morning, crossed the river on Tower Bridge and continued along the river path to where we first saw you."

"Not bad," Al said, inwardly approving the Canadians' plans. "Although you did miss what I consider the best view of the Tower," she added.

"Which is?" inquired Meg.

"If you carry on along the South Bank a little upstream of Tower Bridge, there's a spot where there are no tall office blocks behind the Tower."

"So the Tower of London is once again seen in perspective," remarked Fraser. Al nodded, mildly impressed by Fraser's perception; Meg she wasn't so sure about, something warned Al that she was less forgiving than her husband. Even without knowing anything of the structure of the RCMP, Al suspected that she held the higher rank. Yet it didn't seem to bother them: Fraser's mildness countered but didn't submit to Meg's sharpness.

"We'll have to remember that," Meg said, "it seems a bit of a walk for now."

"London pavements are hard," Al agreed, "though you've probably already discovered that on your way up from Greenwich." She tilted her head to one side in a pose that reminded Meg of Fraser as she appeared to consider possibilities: they were by the Monument; back over London Bridge, up along the South Bank to Millennium Bridge, and thence, perhaps to Trafalgar Square. The National Gallery closed at six, if they went up the Monument, it might make them a bit late to really enjoy the National, but then it might not. She knew she wanted to be out by half past five, but that was another, entirely irrelevant, matter. She checked her watch: nearly two now; it might be possible. "I hope you're ready for more London pavements," she said. Fraser and Meg both nodded in silence.

"Lead on," Meg said when their new acquaintance did not move immediately and they set off at a reasonably brisk walk, Al leading and the two Mounties keeping up fairly easily.

"On ne connaît pas son nom," Al heard Fraser say as they descended from London Bridge to the South Bank.

"My name is Al," she said over her shoulder, forestalling any reminder from Meg that French was understood by all three of them.

"Is that short for something?" Meg asked conversationally.

"Yes, Aldabella. I hate the name," Al said sourly, and Meg could understand why: long, awkward, fanciful, and without even the excuse of being old fashioned like her own Margaret.

"Is there anything in particular that you were thinking of seeing?" Al asked after they had walked in silence for a while, Al sticking close to the railings at the river's edge, eyes trained on the murky water.

"The National Gallery, the museums, I didn't feel like planning too much, mostly figured we'd wonder around a lot and see where we ended up," Meg said.

"Sore feet," Al commented wryly.

"We thought about going to a concert," Meg continued, "but I never got around to looking at what was on."

"Classical?"

"Yes," Meg replied.

"The Philharmonia's playing at the RFH tomorrow. I was thinking of going," Al offered.

"What's the programme?" asked Fraser, thinking that the orchestra and the venue were secondary concerns since London no doubt had several of each.

"Fingal's cave, Bruch violin concerto, Beethoven three. I usually get the cheapest tickets, at the back of the upper balcony. The RFH has just about the best acoustics in London; even up in the Gods, you can hear every note," Al explained. She pulled out a slim wallet, flicked it open and shut before slipping it back in the cargo pocket of her trousers. "I can get three tickets later if you'd like," she offered.

"Meg?" Fraser asked, knowing that classical wasn't her favourite type of music.

"Why not?" Meg asked with a shrug, "you don't get much chance to go to concerts at home, besides, it will be an experience if nothing else."

 

"That's sorted then, I'll get three tickets," Al said. "I should thank you," she added a moment later, "I've been putting off deciding to go; if you hadn't done what you did, it's doubtful I would go at all."

"I'm sorry that we made you uncomfortable," apologised Fraser softly.

"I shouldn't have snapped as I did," Al admitted, her eyes still trained on the swirling water to her right.

"You had every right to be upset, we intruded on you at a time when you were wishing to be left alone," Fraser said.

"True, being left alone is not usually a problem in London," Al said with a mirthless laugh. More silence followed. Al walked purposefully and, although they were not the fastest, they were far from the slowest people along the riverside. Meg and Fraser felt they were drowning in the sea of faces: all passing with no acknowledgement.

"Makes me miss home," Meg murmured quietly.

"Yes," agreed Fraser, "we've got used to being part of a community, one where strangers are welcome."

"Everyone's a stranger here," remarked Meg, wondering whether that wasn't the root cause of many problems. "Where are we going?" she asked when Al turned sharply left and lead them up a slope.

"Wait and see," Al said, grinning.

"Oh, St. Paul's," Fraser breathed a moment later when the dome became visible at the far end of the bridge they had just started to cross.

"Once the tallest building in London," Al said. "Now..." she gestured ahead at the office blocks - not especially tall as office blocks went - that surrounded Wren's Cathedral. "Welcome to the City," she said as they finished crossing the river.

They dawdled past the cathedral, and Fraser thought back to descriptions of nineteenth century St. Paul's: twenty-first century St. Paul's was certainly much less vibrant: "The buildings remain though times have changed," he murmured sadly.

"It's amazing id didn't get destroyed in the Blitz," remarked Meg.

"I believe the bends in the river may have helped with that," suggested Fraser. "When was it built? he asked Al.

"In sixteen-hundred and sixty-six, London Town was burnt to sticks," Al recited, "St. Paul's as you see it today was designed by Sir Christopher Wren after the Great Fire."

Fraser nodded. "We passed the Monument earlier, didn't we?" he asked, something finally making sense.

"Yes. It is said that if the Monument were laid on its side, the flames at the top would be where the fire started in Pudding Lane," Al repeated the legend she'd learnt as a child. "I'm afraid I'm dead reckoning from here until we near Covent Garden," Al admitted as they left the cathedral behind them.

"OK," Meg said sceptically, only to receive a gentle nudge in the ribs from Fraser: trust her, it said.

"I've never got properly lost," Al explained, "just end up a street or two one side or the other of where I want to end up."

"How long are you here for?" Al asked a while later as they waled along the Strand.

"Till Friday evening, then the Caledonian Sleeper to Edinburgh before heading to the Highlands for a few days and they some time on the Isle of Skye," Meg summarised succinctly.

"Have you maps?"

"No, just directions from Google," Meg admitted, feeling a little ashamed for being so unprepared.

"OK," Al said, seemingly unfazed, "next stop Stanfords, then Traf' Square."

"What's Stanfords?" asked Meg, confused.

"Wait and see," Fraser told her, confident that Al had a plan of some sorts as she lead them across the Strand and up a quieter side street; sure of her direction. They slowed as they joined Long Acre; Fraser recognised the name, though even he felt slightly disoriented: Chicago streets were straight; London's much older streets wiggled and old buildings juxtaposed with new made his head spin in trying to keep some sort of coherent picture or understanding of London.

"Oh, maps," Meg said, when Al lead them into a shop and past banks of travel books to a wall filled with folded maps: pink on one set of shelves; orange on another.

"Look at your feet," Al said, and Meg and Fraser looked down to see that the floor was also a map.

"Is this the entire of the country?" Fraser asked, eyes wide, as he glanced over the shelves of maps in front of them.

"Yes," Al said, "one to fifty thousand is probably enough for walking; especially since it's Scotland. One to twenty-five has the advantage that you know where the fences are," she added. She ran her eyes along the upper shelves, picking out three pink maps of Skye and handed them to Meg who had slipped glasses on. "I don't know where you're planning exactly," she said. "Where about in the Highlands?" she asked, her hand resting on a shelf.

"Invergarry near Fort Augustus," said Meg.

"There," Al said, pulling out another map and handing it to Fraser. She went over to the orange maps and selected the ones of Skye: she'd seen one of them once before and remembered thinking that there the extra details on the Cuillins might be useful if she ever went there. "It's worth having a look at these before you decide," she said, handing the maps to Meg. She watched patiently as Meg and Fraser pored over the maps. They didn't say much, clearly knowing what they were doing; they kept two, both pink. Al took the orange maps and put them away; Fraser pulled out the Edinburgh map while he was putting the others away.

"What's Arthur's seat?" Fraser asked after he had held it open for Meg for a minute or two.

"I don't rightly know," Al admitted.

"It's marked with a blue, sun-like symbol," Meg said.

"View point," Al looked over the map from the top, to where Meg's finger was resting on the map, "over Edinburgh and the Firth of Forth. You're probably better getting a city map one you get there," she advised.

Fraser nodded and they folded up the map before returning it to its place on the shelves. He queued, paying cash for the maps. Al was amused almost as much by Meg's smile as by Fraser's reaching to his head for his money before drawing the notes from his coat pocket.

"He usually keeps his money in his hat," said Meg fondly, noting Al's bemused expression.

"Which he is not wearing," Al replied with a smile as Fraser joined them.

"Where now?" asked Fraser.

"National Gallery," replied Al promptly, "it's about five minutes away."

"Have we time?" asked Meg; "It's getting on to four now, I think I remember reading that it closes at six."

"It does," Al confirmed, "but my father always said that museums and galleries are best visited for an hour or two at a time."

"He sounds like a sensible man," remarked Meg. Al gave a small smile and they set off. When they reached Trafalgar Square, Meg was a little surprised when Al turned right instead of heading up the main steps at the front of the building. A minute later, Al's plan became clear: there was no one to not walk into when you slipped in by the bak entrance. They collected a floor plan, climbed the stairs and came out in one of the galleries.

"I'll meet you out the front some time after a quarter to six," Al said, "don't worry about being late," she added, "the weather's not bad." With that, she headed off with a cheery wave.

Al spent some time wandering through various of the rooms of the Gallery, visiting some of her 'old friends' - as she thought of some of her favourite paintings, before which she could stand for a full five minutes considering the changes that had been wrought across the years, sometimes centuries, that had passed since they had been painted. Shaking her head after a while, she crossed the bridge to the Salisbury Wing and slipped out by the side entrance. She checked her watch, not even five, plenty of time to head across the river, pop into Foyles, and then get the tickets. She considered her options for a minute before turning sharply right and taking the steps between the two parts of the National Gallery with long strides.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was two chapters, but they were short so I combined them into one long chapter.
> 
> RFH = Royal Festival Hall; The Philharmonia is one of the London orchestras and plays most Thursdays in the season. Being able to hear every note from the back row of the upper balcony is true; 'the Gods' is a misnomer and actually refers to the highest tier of the Royal Albert Hall.  
> Stanfords is on Long Acre; yes, it does stock maps covering the entire of the UK at both 1:50 000 and 1:25 000 scales.  
> Foyles is a bookshop with an outlet under the RFH foyer.
> 
> TRANSLATION OF THE FRENCH:  
> Watch her eyes.  
> Why?  
> Because she cannot hide her fear.  
> And if it is fear of us?  
> I don't think she is afraid of anyone. Society, the future, perhaps even herself, but not two strangers.
> 
> We don't know her name.


	6. Reflections

"Peculiar woman, that, Meg," Fraser remarked softly once Al was out of sight.

"Yes," agreed Meg, leaning slightly against Fraser, feeling a bit overwhelmed by the speed at which things appeared to move in London after four years of relative quiet in Edmonton. Fraser let go of Meg's hand and slipped a comforting arm around her waist. "I wonder whether she has any idea of how many contradictions she embodies," she murmured a minute later.

"It is quite possible that she does," said Fraser after a moment's consideration, "it could certainly account for much of her feeling of helplessness and isolation." It had been a while since he'd met someone who appeared both so self-aware and confident as Al had been when choosing her route through the maze of London streets and yet so unsure of her place among the millions who lived, worked and visited the city around her.

"So what can we do?" asked Meg, straightening up to look up into her husband's face - he was the expert when it came to helping people.

"Very little, apart from listen; she'll talk if and when she wants to," said Fraser: Al was clearly well able to look after herself and not in any immediate difficulty. "Kipling once wrote never to presume you can understand another person's grief. Oh dear," he frowned suddenly, "he also said not to intrude and ask how someone who was clearly upset was."

"You forgot?" Meg was surprised. Fraser rarely forgot - it was simultaneously one of his most endearing and most irritating traits: endearing when he remembered something that could bring comfort or reassurance; irritating when it lead him off on an inexplicable tangent or meant he reminded her of something that she would rather not be reminded of - usually something that she had half-agreed to try to do and that she was only making a half-hearted attempt to actually do.

"It appears so. Come on," he said more brightly after a short pause, "we should enjoy the works of some of the finest painters the world has ever known." Intriguing as the conundrum posed by their new acquaintance was, they didn't have enough information to do more than speculate, and they had got about as far as speculation at this juncture could usefully lead them.

Meg glanced around; "Where do we start?" she asked. Fraser flicked open the floor plan, studied it for a moment and shook his head.

"You probably know more about painting than I do," he said, handing the plan to Meg.

"That was two months, over thirty years ago," said Meg a little tiredly, not even looking at the floor plan in her hand or putting on her glasses. "How about we stand in the centre of each room and see which pictures stand out - you choose one, I choose one - and those are the two we actually look at," she suggested after another look at the part of the room that she could see. It seemed one way of following Al's advice while managing to explore a reasonable portion of the gallery.

"Sounds like a plan," Fraser agreed, placing a kiss on the top of Meg's head before he let his arm drop from around her waist. They wandered from room to room, picking paintings almost at random; even Fraser only recognised about half the painters' names. Fraser was often caught by the expression in a subject's face while Meg seemed attracted by the sweep of landscapes. Fraser was a little surprised: "Sometimes I wonder whether I know you at all," he said mildly and a fraction sadly as they made their way through the tall swinging doors between two rooms.

"What makes you say that?" asked Meg, glancing up sharply.

"If anyone had asked me which paintings would catch your eye, at least from the subject matter, I would have guessed those depicting domestic arrangements - given your experience fitting into a variety of cultures - or bustling cultural hubs of cities," Fraser explained. He knew that the quiet reflectiveness of almost uninhabited lands was something that daunted Meg more than it attracted her; he'd expected that to be reflected in the paintings that caught her eye.

Meg stepped to one side as they entered the new room, drawing Fraser with her.

"Ben," she said softly, keeping her eyes on his, reading the hint of worry and self-doubt that he did not try to hide in his blue eyes, "you cannot expect to know about something we've never even discussed. You know me better than anyone; why should one surprise make you doubt it?"

"I don't know," admitted Fraser, frowning. "I keep thinking this is a dream and one day I'll wake up to find I knocked myself unconscious while chasing a fugitive or something, and a doctor will tell me that I'd suffered from an inner ear imbalance as a result." He took a deep breath, his chest heaving as he tried to ease back from the edge of panic as painful memories stirred after many years silence.

"Fraser," said Meg with a small sigh, her face serious even though Fraser's words invited laughter, "now is neither the time nor the place for you to doubt yourself. I married you, I never thought I would marry, but I married you." She raised a hand to cup Fraser's cheek, gently running her thumb across the skin below Fraser's troubled eyes. "Some days it terrifies me," she whispered, forcing Fraser to meet her gaze, "knowing that I'd do almost anything - anything short of killing innocent bystanders I think - to keep you safe. But we're here, together, do not question that." She wiped a stray tear away from the corner of Fraser's eye with her thumb: "If I didn't want to be here," she added a little mischievously though her voice remained serious, "I'd be long gone."

Fraser said nothing, just pulled Meg into a tight hug and hid his face against her shoulder. Meg wrapped her arms around her husband's waist, her cheek against his chest, and listened as his breathing calmed. After a few long moments, he slowly straightened and relaxed his hold, finding her left hand and keeping it firmly clasped in his. "I can't let you go," he murmured. Meg gave a small, tight smile and a single nod.

They wandered through a few more rooms and were surprised to glance at their watches and see that it was nearing quarter to six. They made their way out, following the general flow of visitors, pausing for Fraser to drop some coins into the donations box. Leaving by the main entrance, the mass of people meant that they did not catch more than a glimpse of Trafalgar Square until they had descended the entrance steps, turned left and found some space a little out of the main flow of people.

"Oh," Fraser said softly after a moment of silent observation of the scene before them. There was something about the open space of the square that drew the heart: the lions lying around the base of Nelson's column, a glimpse down a street to Big Ben. He smiled, noting a group of children clambering over the nearest lion: two of the larger children had climbed on to its back while the smallest seemed perfectly content to sit between the two front paws.

"I'm sure they're not supposed to be climbing on the lions," he said mildly, and Meg could hear the amusement in his tone.

"Hush," she whispered, pressing his arm.

Al waited calmly for the two Canadians, her attention fixed mostly on the steps of the National Gallery, watching as people left: some made assured decisions once they reached the square, but the majority gazed around and wandered aimlessly for at least a few steps. She'd arrived a minute or two before the three-quarter hour had rung and had found a quiet unoccupied corner from which to observe the bustling square while she remained largely unnoticed.

She spotted Fraser and Meg as they started to descend the steps but didn't move, watching as they extricated themselves from the crowd before stopping to gaze over Trafalgar Square. Meg looked a bit tired and worn although Fraser was as upright as he had been earlier. Al wondered whether her current idea was really a good one - it involved walking another mile or more, but she would do it anyway. She waved briefly when they looked in her direction, receiving a nod of recognition from Fraser. She stayed still as they made their way towards her, only stepping forwards once they were close enough not to get lost in the crowd.

"Where now?" Fraser asked once they'd said 'hello'.

"It's up to you. I was thinking of walking up the Mall to Buckingham Palace, then you could get the Jubilee line from Green Park, but if you're tired, then I'd suggest going down to Embankment, maybe getting something to eat on the way and change at Tower," said Al. "I suppose it depends how touristy you're feeling, at least in part," she added, not wishing to make the two Canadians uncomfortable or feel pressurised into keeping her company: she'd spent entire days exploring London on her own when she had been younger, a change of scene and a novelty compared to the quiet, almost stagnantly peaceful life of the village she'd grown up in, but she knew too that it could be overwhelming, particularly in the way that it made everyone anonymous.

"The idea of seeing Buckingham Palace certainly has its attractions," admitted Fraser. "Meg?" he asked, turning to his wife.

"Why not?" Meg was tired, but the thought of returning to the quiet of Greenwich was not quite as attractive as seeing one more landmark; besides, with Al they were probably going to manage it with far more ease, and possibly interest, than they might otherwise.

"OK," Al said with a cryptic look which Fraser was starting to suspect was associated with her considering possibilities and deciding on one that was not necessarily expected. "Oh, before we leave," she added suddenly, halting after a single step, "tomorrow, meet me at the north-east corner of the church there," she pointed at a building looking more, to Fraser's eyes, like one would imagine a Greek temple: columns and steps, than a church.

"What time?" Fraser enquired.

"Sometime between six forty-five and seven," Al replied before leading the way along the top of the line of steps immediately before the National Gallery and down the road heading west from the north-west corner.

"If we're going along the Mall," Fraser ventured, trying to remember the details of the map and guidebook they'd studied the previous evening and had referred to several times before they met Al, "shouldn't we have gone under Admiralty Arch?"

"Yes," Al said, "but I usually go this way - up Pall Mall," which she pronounced as 'pell-mell', "then down the Duke of York's steps." Fraser nodded and they followed their guide.

They walked in silence for a while: Al had been right, the crowd thinned quickly once they'd left Trafalgar Square and they could walk more easily. Another of Al's sudden turns brought them to almost deserted streets where the rumble of traffic was much reduced.

"How do you know London so well?" asked Fraser as they passed in front of neat white buildings.

"I grew up close enough for it to be a day out," came the brief reply.

"But it doesn't necessarily follow that you would choose to visit," remarked Meg: just because something was possible, didn't mean to say it had to be done and Al's apathy towards London would be more likely to cause her to stay away when possible.

"True, but it was better than vegetating at home: even lost in the crowd could be more humanising than marching through mud where the scenes were almost identical even with changing seasons." Al's dissatisfaction and disapproval of herself were clear to all of them. "I'm sorry," she said after a few steps in which no one spoke, "you're here to enjoy yourselves, you do not want to hear my life story." She almost ran down the steep flight of steps that were marked by a pillar - another memorial - and descended to the broad tree lined road below.

Meg was glad that Al halted when she reached the bottom; she'd half suspected that the young woman would run from them again, leaving them to make their own way back to Greenwich and wonder whether they would even see her the following evening. She and Fraser followed more sedately: the steps were narrow and a little uneven after many years wear from thousands of people passing up and down.

As they reached the Victoria Memorial, Al slowed and stopped. "This is where our ways part," she said, and Meg thought she could detect a trace of sadness in the young woman's tone. "To get to Green Park station, follow the main path straight across the park from the light over there," she pointed to some pedestrian lights to the right of the Palace. "My way lies this way for Victoria," she said peculiarly stiffly, gesturing to a path that ran parallel to the road behind the memorial.

"Thank you, Al," Meg said, holding out her hand.

"No worries, ma'am, sir," Al said as merrily as she could as they shook hands. She checked her watch; just after half past six. "Until tomorrow," she said and spotting a break in the traffic made her way briskly across the road.

Meg and Fraser watched Al go, only mildly surprised when she broke into a run after a few strides, easily avoiding the slower pedestrians despite the fact that she barely appeared to be looking at where she was going.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Kipling reference is to his poem 'The Comforters'.  
> The street down which Big Ben can be seen from the steps of the National Gallery is Whitehall.  
> The church is St. Martin in the Fields (St. Martin's).  
> The proper (old) pronunciation of Pall Mall is 'pell-mell'.  
> The Duke of York's steps come out about half way down the Mall, and are much quieter than Admiralty Arch. I've been lazy in not providing any description of Buckingham Palace from the Mall - I may come back and amend that later.


	7. Mendelssohn, Bruch and Mahler

Al was impatient at work the next day. The time off the previous day had allowed her to gain some perspective and without trying to concentrate on a particular problem, she was fairly confident that several of the difficulties she'd been struggling against over the last few weeks had somehow resolved themselves. Despite that knowledge, she spent over an hour not doing anything, the concert tickets tucked in her bag preying on her mind. She sighed and gave in, hoping that spending a few minutes answering one of the questions she had about her new acquaintances would lessen the distraction. Her suspicions were confirmed: Meg outranked her husband - 'Good on you,' she thought.

That question answered, Al returned to her work: listing her sticking points; identifying the exact problems and what she knew of their solutions. Before she realised it, all her colleagues had arrived and it was time for lunch. She was quiet while they ate, mulling over what she had yet to do, letting the others chatter. Her usual finishing time came and went and still she worked on.

"Aren't you usually long gone by now?" one of her colleagues asked an hour later.

"Yes," Al said, "but I'm busy sorting out a whole bunch of things that haven't been working for ages. Besides," she added with a shrug, "I skived off most of yesterday."

At six o'clock, Al packed up and left, her desk much tidier than the previous day when she had expected to return before heading home rather than losing the entire afternoon and leaving everything at work. She bought a sandwich and ate it as she made her way south to Cambridge Circus. Winding her way down the quieter streets, she glanced across to check Seven Dials; confident of her location, she carried on, turned right onto Long Acre then left, out of the main crowd, to head down St. Martin's Lane. Halting at the end of the lane, she checked that she wasn't the only one who was early before she spun on her heels to lose herself for ten minutes in the narrow streets and alleys on the western edge of Covent Garden.

Keeping a careful eye on the time, the second time she reached the bottom of St. Martin's Lane, this time on the south side of William IV Street, was a few seconds before Big Ben chimed the three-quarters. Arriving at the corner of the church as the chimes finished, she was startled by Fraser's voice speaking next to her; she'd been so caught up in her own thoughts that she'd stopped keeping her eyes open for him and Meg.

"Impressive timing."

"Thank you, but not really, I was early so went exploring," Al said, pushing a few strands of hair out of her eyes. "Did you have a good day?"

"Yes, thank you," replied Fraser, "The Victoria and Albert museum is a remarkable collection and, while the Natural History Museum houses some fantastic samples and interesting exhibits, the building is a monument in its own right." Al smiled and nodded in agreement. Much as she generally disliked London, the museums were always worth a visit.

"Have you eaten?" she asked, "we haven't a lot of time."

"Yes," Meg said, speaking for the first time.

"Good, shall we?"

"Lead on," said Meg, and Al led them past the front of the church, across a busy intersection, then turned out of the press of people to make her way down a broad street.

"I normally cross the river on Hungerford," she explained, somewhat cryptically, "as it's more direct to the RFH, but Jubilee has a rather different view."

"Hungerford and Jubilee being two bridges?" Fraser guessed as they waited to cross another road.

"Yes," Al said. "Hungerford was the original - the railway and the footbridge on the downstream side. This side is from the seventies, I think it was the the Queen's silver jubilee." They reached the top of the steps and Al slowed a bit, allowing Fraser and Meg to take in the view as they walked along while she almost closed her eyes and ran a hand along the railing.

"Oh," said Meg, "Big Ben."

"And the Houses of Parliament," Fraser added, almost reverently.

A few minutes later they followed Al as she trotted briskly down the steps to the South Bank below; turning she led them under the bridge and in through a set of doors between a bookshop and a café. "I hope you don't mind stairs," she said apologetically as they climbed the steps up to the main foyer; her steps slow as she took two steps at a time.

"Not a problem," Meg said, knowing that Fraser's fitness was of the run up twenty flights of stairs level while hers got to walking up about twelve comfortably.

"It's six storeys," Al said, "toilets on fourth." She led the way across the foyer to the green side and slowly started following the general flow of people up. As they climbed, Meg found that she agreed with Al and the shallow steps were more comfortably managed two at a time; as the crowd thinned, their pace quickened. Al swung her rucksack off her back as they reached the top and pulled the strip of tickets out of a pocket, handing them to the stewardess.

"Second aisle, eighth row," the stewardess said, handing back the tickets.

"Thank you," replied Al.

Walking into the auditorium, Meg almost walked into Fraser's back, he stopped so suddenly.

"Oh," she heard him breathe, and she could just imagine the look on his face: lips parted a fraction and eyes wide as he tried to take in everything at once.

"Come on," she whispered, nudging his elbow gently, "Al's waiting for us," she reminded him, looking up to see where Al was standing at the end of a row of seats.

"Sorry," Fraser murmured as they walked along to the second aisle, "I just hadn't quite put six storeys into perspective."

They climbed the steep steps to their seats in silence and chatted quietly about what they had seen of London and what they thought of doing in Scotland, ignored by Al who sat, leant forward with her elbows on her knees and chin in her hands, gaze intent on the stage below as the orchestra drifted on, noting which seats remained empty, the unusual arrangement of the string sections and the lack of music stand in front of the conductor's podium. The woman wore all black while the men cut smart figures in tail coats and black bow ties against bright white shirts. Meg was reminded strongly of the few times she'd seen Fraser in a tuxedo - how smart he looked - which in his case amounted to down-right gorgeous.

"It's been years since I saw you in a tux'," she whispered to Fraser.

"Yes," he agreed distractedly, "I haven't worn one since Chicago."

Quiet fell slowly following an announcement regarding mobile phones and photography. Then clapping as the leader of the orchestra walked on, bowed, took his seat; more clapping, the conductor, a blonde haired woman dressed, like the female members of the orchestra, all in black. She bowed, turned to face the orchestra, raised her baton and, after a breathless pause, the quiet opening notes of Mendelssohn's Hebrides overture were heard.

Fraser was transfixed; he'd rarely had the opportunity to hear and see classical music performed live, certainly not with a birds' eye view, and he was entranced, caught, as Mendelssohn had no doubt intended, in the swirl of notes inspired by Fingal's cave on Staffa. Although Meg couldn't deny that it was a lovely piece of music, she wasn't captivated in the same way as her husband; she glanced at Al who was also entirely focused on the orchestra far below. The look of enjoyment and absorption on Fraser's face more than made up for any misgivings she might have entertained about sitting through nearly two hours of music that she was generally unfamiliar with and of a genre that she remembered finding unbearably tedious when she was younger.

"Wow," Fraser breathed in the quiet preceding the entrance of the soloist.

"I know," Al whispered back, eyes bright.

In the interval they made their way down a couple of levels to a balcony looking out over the Thames. The night was cool and few had ventured out. They stood leaning on the wall edging the balcony, each absorbed in their own thoughts.

"Why the river?" asked Fraser softly, turning to face Al on the other side of Meg. "Why London Bridge?"

"'Over the borders, a sin without pardon'," replied Al, quoting the poem that always brought her to running water.

"'Keepsake Mill'," said Fraser, "Robert Louis Stevenson."

"You recognised that?" Meg asked.

"Yes," Fraser said, running a thumbnail backwards across an eyebrow. "It ends: 'Honoured and old and all gaily apparelled, here we shall meet and remember the past."'

"Yes," said Al with a soft smile, her eyes distant. "It reminds me that sometimes there are second chances; that friends can meet after long partings."

Meg nodded, aware of Fraser's eyes on her even though she, like Al, was looking at the darkened river. The significance of the sentiment was not lost on her: she and Fraser could almost be considered an example of the exact situation described; but whether it was directly related to whatever was bothering Al she couldn't tell.

"How did you two meet?" Al enquired, "if you don't mind me asking," she amended hastily.

"She fired me," Fraser said fondly: it wasn't exactly the truth, but it was one thing he had learnt to tease Meg about.

"I was his commanding officer," explained Meg, her tone a little defensive, "where he was, trouble - and paperwork - were never far behind."

"After the best part of four years working together, we went our separate ways for nearly a decade before we met again," Fraser summarised briefly. A bell rang, calling them back to their seats and the topic was dropped without further explanation.

The applause, renewed several times while the conductor returned to the stage at the end of nearly an hour's music, finally died down and orchestra and audience alike stood, stretched and collected their belongings, Al, Meg and Fraser among them.

"How to get back to Greenwich?" Meg asked Fraser as he held her coat for her.

"Jubilee from Waterloo, then DLR," Al said promptly, "I'll walk with you."

"Thank you kindly," said Fraser.

"No worries, I'll get a train from there anyway."

"Well thank you anyway," said Meg with a grateful smile. They descended the stairs in silence, each absorbed by their own thoughts. Once outside, Fraser took Meg's left hand in his right, running his thumb over her rings before interlacing their fingers.

"What are your plans for tomorrow?" Al asked as they made their way along Sutton Walk and under the railway, effectively preventing Meg from asking more about her difficulties.

"Hampton Court Palace, if we can work out how to get there," replied Meg when Fraser was silent.

"Get a travel card and a train from Waterloo," said Al, "I can't remember if it's zone five or six though, you need a London connections map rather than the tube map. If you have a couple of minutes, I can see if I can find one for you," she offered as she lead the way up the entry steps, unaware of Meg's wide eyes as she tried to take in the ornate, even ostentatious carvings that framed the entry.

It seemed inexplicable to Meg for a station building - one that would have presumably been subject to a lot of dirt in the time of steam trains - to be so grand: was it a British thing, she wondered or a London thing? She couldn't think that there could be any reason to spend money on decorating an already large building, but then it was in keeping with the other old buildings they'd seen across London: apart from the Tower, impressive ornamentation seemed to be the standard against which historic buildings were rated.

"That probably would be useful," agreed Meg.

Al left the two Canadians standing near the top of the escalators leading to the underground as she went to find a connections map. She reappeared a few minutes later, map in hand.

"Here you are," she said, handing the map to Meg. They stood awkwardly for a moment. "I must be going," said Al.

"Thank you for this evening. What do we owe you for the tickets?" asked Meg, aware from Fraser's abstracted look that he was probably still hearing Mahler's music more clearly than the bustle of the station. The rousing final few bars certainly did plan on being noticed and, though she wasn't familiar with orchestral conventions, the fact that the entire horn section had finished the piece standing up didn't seem an everyday occurrence. Personally, she had found the slow theme that had reminded her vaguely of Frère Jaques more interesting, even if it had soon made her wonder who exactly was getting drunk. Her understanding had always been that music was to be listened to, but seeing a large scale orchestral work performed had been different: the actions of the orchestra - and the way that the ending in particular made it questionable as to who was actually determining the course of the piece - were far more dramatic than she had expected.

"No, it's my treat," Al said, "I made a month's worth of progress in a day because of you."

"Very well," said Meg, "if you're ever in Canada, we'd be happy to see you."

"Canada's a big place," Al remarked wryly.

"True. We currently live near Edmonton - I work there, Ben nearby, but we may be transferring much further north, Inuvik to be precise," Meg added, wishing she had a business card with her; her email address at least would probably not change with any transfer.

"I'll try to remember," said Al seriously before holding out her hand. They shook hands firmly; Meg nudging Fraser gently to bring him back to the present. They watched Al stride across the concourse, chin lifted high as her eyes scanned the displays for the train she wanted. Once she had disappeared from sight, they slowly made their way down to the Jubilee line.

"Al was right," Fraser murmured, "even at the very back, we could hear every note - and enjoy it more," he added, "since the volume was somewhat less."

"It's a pity she kept the tickets," Meg remarked as they took two adjacent seats in the almost empty carriage.

"It can't be helped," said Fraser. "Shall we check Hampton Court?" he asked. Meg handed over the map which he unfolded and spread across their knees. Seeing that the side they had uppermost had a shaded block in the centre, Fraser flipped the map over to reveal the details of London's tube and train networks. Meg noticed two slips of paper drifting to the floor as he did. She gently pushed Fraser's arm to the side so she could lean forward and pick them up.

"She did leave them," she said holding the tickets up.

"She must have slipped them between the folds of the map," Fraser said approvingly.

"Hmm," Meg agreed sleepily. "Wake me up at Canada Water," she said after a quick look at the map and leant her head against Fraser's shoulder, eyes closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have loads of possible notes, but most of them are covered by saying that a lot of this is accurate, particularly the descriptions of London and more especially the references to the RFH concert although I have combined elements of several concerts.
> 
> The street from Trafalgar Square to Embankment station is Northumberland Avenue.  
> 'Why the river?': Similar to the Doctor's question to Dorium 'Why Lake Silencia? why Utah?' in 'The Wedding of River Song'  
> For any who remember Fraser's postings from Two Roads Diverged - chapter 7 I think, I have gone back and changed them - he (now) hasn't lived in Inuvik since before his father's murder.  
> The DLR is the Docklands Light Railway.
> 
> Moral: do not walk around London looking at your feet (unless just inside main entrance of the National Gallery).


	8. Institutions

The day spent at Hampton Court Palace was much more relaxing than the previous two: although it was busy, there were far fewer visitors than central London and two days of London pavements had left them with slightly sore feet; despite still being largely on tarmac, the ground beneath their feet felt softer. The space and greenery were refreshing and the slightly slower pace was akin to their first day in Greenwich on the other side of the city. Meg wondered whether it was really out of character for her to welcome the more rural environment as she realised she did. Once somewhere like Greenwich Park or Hampton Court had classified as her definition of the edge of real civilisation, but no longer.

They explored the intricate buildings, peeking into segments of the past, wondering at the opulence that had once been fashionable, and had coexisted alongside - or as part of - a much more rudimentary way of life. The green of the park-cum-golf course and the calm of the river - the Thames distinctly clearer, narrower and less turbulent away from the lower tidal reaches - clearly calmed Fraser's nerves: although not as overwhelmed by London as Meg imagined he had been by Chicago when he'd first arrived, he had struggled more than even Al seemed to with the ceaseless race to get ahead. Al, she supposed, had the distinct advantage of familiarity, as Fraser had by the time they'd met. She hadn't found being transferred to Chicago too difficult, but, though she would never admit it, not even to Ben or Maggie, she had sometimes envied Fraser's determination - and success - in joining in with the lives of those around him.

"It's remarkable," Fraser observed quietly as they sauntered hand in hand along the riverside path, "at home, fall comes in a blaze of colour; summer's green rapidly disappearing as the snows approach. Here it almost seems as if the whole land must be green all year round."

"Scotland in February and March is grey enough," Meg said, "yet on a sunny day, where the snow melted, it was green that peeked through. I sometimes felt as if the land was refusing to submit to the bleakness of the season."

"'In England's green and pleasant land'," murmured Fraser. "From 'Jerusalem' by William Blake," he explained in response to Meg's questioning look. "If I remember correctly, it was set to music by Hubert Parry and has become something of an unofficial anthem since then. Its nationalistic aspects and Parry's music generally obscuring or distracting from the almost despairing reflections on the environment and squalid conditions of nineteenth century industrial cities."

"It never ceases to amaze me," said Meg as she gazed across the river, "just how much you know. I know you read pretty much the entire of your grandmother's library, but to have retained that information for something in the region of forty years..."

"There was not much else to do," Fraser said with a shrug. "I learnt to retain the information I'd read and the stories I heard - the latter facilitated or promoted by the oral traditions of the Inuit among whom we lived for much of my childhood. Yet I have an inconvenient tendency to forget advice," he concluded wryly.

"And instructions or even orders," Meg added, more amusement than irritation in her tone as she determinedly ignored the possibility that she would soon be in a position where Fraser would again regularly disregard her orders.

"Unfortunately yes," Fraser agreed sadly. They'd had variations of this conversation on several occasions and would no doubt return to the theme, particularly if they decided to take the transfer and once again end up as commanding and subordinate officers. Despite his longing to return to the north permanently, he was still not entirely convinced that taking the transfer would be fair to Meg; he knew she would suffer from his tendency to become involved with a community to a far greater extent than his duties - or even any degree of sense - would dictate.

Meg had figured out fairly soon after first meeting Fraser that he rarely actually set out to disobey orders, in fact quite the opposite - he went out of his way to try to obey instructions. But when something occurred or was brought to his attention - mystery, crime or difficultly - then doing his utmost to help those in need took precedence over implied or direct instructions. Even while she'd suffered from the complications and often arduous paperwork that Fraser's exploits usually engendered, she had admitted, albeit secretly, that his actions did keep her job from becoming entirely mundane and his reasons were always laudable. As she'd said the first time he had refused the offer of a transfer, he felt he could help: unlike many who could avow the same, he acted on his conviction and made his presence in Chicago count.

Glancing at their watches when they noticed the drop in temperature and the setting sun, they saw that they didn't have much time in which to collect their bags before they headed back to London to start the next leg of their journey. They walked briskly back to the palace, collected their bags, found a small restaurant where they ate a quick meal. After a final look at the many varied chimneys peeping over the wall that surrounded the buildings, they caught the train that would take them back to London. It had been a lovely day, more restful than the preceding two and the change in scene and purer air had been welcome to both.

They reached Euston nearly an hour and a half before their train was due to leave. After a brief discussion, they decided that it would be more pleasant to get a coffee and sit drinking that than spending more time walking aimlessly around minor streets. The wide grounds of the Palace, as well as the buildings themselves had been explored pretty thoroughly, sometimes they'd gone to a place two or three times as an idea struck; even Fraser couldn't say how far they'd walked and they were glad to stop and rest for a while.

They were slightly surprised when their train was announced less than an hour after they arrived. Without necessarily paying much attention to the announcements, it had become clear that the long distance trains typically started boarding about fifteen minutes before they were due to leave. They stood slowly, checked the platform number and shouldered their bags before briskly making their way to the correct platform. Their tickets and reservations checked, they walked evenly along the platform, noting the differences to the commuter train they'd been on earlier that day: slam doors at the ends of the carriages instead of sliding doors for starters.

"I only got us seats," Meg said apologetically as they walked, "I learnt to sleep anywhere, I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all," Fraser replied, vaguely relieved. They said little more as the found their seats and put their bags on the rack at the end of the carriage after digging out their books: Meg was currently reading 'Pride and Prejudice'; Fraser had been recommending it for years, but this was the first time she'd managed to get beyond the first few chapters without interruption - usually in the form of work. Fraser had picked up a large tome on the flora and fauna of Europe in Greenwich and was quickly adding to his stock of knowledge. They settled themselves in the comfortable seats - much ofter and more spacious than the other trains they'd travelled on since arriving at Heathrow - and read in silence, unaffected by the slamming of doors and people passing though the carriage as the train slowly got underway.

Meg sighed, much as she had enjoyed London and found it interesting, she was glad to be leaving for somewhere that she was at least vaguely familiar with. The perpetual noise and rush, particularly of the central part that they had, along with millions of other visitors, stayed within, had been tiring. She supposed it was probably different for someone who, like Al, worked there: unlike Fraser, she had not spent much time exploring Chicago even though she'd worked there; it was likely that the same pattern was repeated in London. Live there, work there, but don't explore what there is there; visit somewhere and see at least some of what is worth seeing.

They shared a brief confused glance when the train stopped surprisingly soon after it had started. Looking out of the windows, they could see lines of trucks on either side; they were presumably in some sort of freight yard. The tannoy crackled and they listened carefully as an announcement was made, informing passengers that they would be there for about twenty minutes before starting in the opposite direction and joining the East Coast mainline. Meg was secretly a little relieved that this was accompanied by an explanation - something to do with the railway line still requiring repairs after damage to several bridges had been detected, the cause being several small earthquakes that had recently affected the north-west of England.

Once they started again, they stayed awake and read until they were well on their way - the long train had slipped slowly through a series of almost deserted stations, then joined the mainline - Meg assumed that it was the mainline after spotting a a long train heading along the lines below and beside them as they descended a slope to a new set of tracks. Shortly after half past ten, Fraser closed his book and Meg handed him hers, content to leave Miss Jane Bennet in town with her aunt and uncle and Miss Elizabeth Bennet with an invitation to dine at Rosings the following evening; a situation they'd been in for at least the last fifteen minutes.

Fraser tucked the books back in their rucksacks and took his seat next to Meg who was half-asleep. He took Meg's left hand, placed soft kisses on the knuckles, writs and palm as he did every night before slipping Meg's rings off and putting them safely with his in his jacket pocket.

The night passed peacefully enough, if one can consider being woken several times by the clanking of a slowing train peaceful. The long train stopped twice, at Darlington where there was some disturbance as staff left and staff came and a few doors were slammed; the second, quieter halt was at Newcastle. Fraser spent a few minutes looking at the grand, high-roofed stations, well lit even though almost completely empty in the pre-dawn stillness. He closed his eyes and dozed off; partly glad and partly thinking that Meg had missed out when she'd simply stirred and gone back to sleep both times.

Meg woke properly to look out the window and see a flat horizon discernible only due to a narrow red band presaging dawn. She glanced at Fraser who was still asleep. After a couple of minutes in which she concluded that they were over the border and somewhere beside the North Sea; hence the flat horizon, she dozed off again. Waking an hour or so later, she checked Fraser's watch to find it was a few minutes after five and, though still not fully light, trees, hills and building could be clearly seen. She sat still for a moment, enjoying the quiet and solitude, before gently nudging her husband awake.

"Morning," said Fraser his voice sleep roughened after he'd blinked slowly a few times.

"Yes," Meg replied, stretching in her seat.

"Here," Fraser dug in his pocket and pulled out their rings, handing Meg hers before he slipped his own back on.

"Thanks." Meg ran a hand through her tousled hair before she stood and dug a small bag out of the side pocket of her rucksack. "Back in a few minutes," she said softy as she went to freshen up. Feeling rather more alert, she handed the bag to Fraser who returned soon after with minty breath and less stubble than when he'd left.

He tucked the wash bag back into the pocket of Meg's rucksack and joined her in looking out the window as the light grew and the train slowed: they were approaching Edinburgh; houses taking over from trees and fields as the dominant features; the railway becoming more enclosed as the embankments rose on either side. Meg thought she glimpsed the castle high above them, but couldn't be sure and the thought was pushed from her mind as the long train clanked to a halt and they collected their bags before stepping down to the still platform, empty except for those who, like them, had travelled up from London overnight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meg suggests that Fraser requests a transfer and then finishes his explanation of his motivation for staying in Chicago at the end of 'Witness' (series 2, episode; thanks to AnnieM for taking the time to check which episode).
> 
> The description of the Caledonian Sleeper is pretty accurate.  
> I was going to bring the effects of the winter 2015-16 flooding that diverted and rescheduled the Caledonian Sleeper for several months. But stretching the duration of the resulting engineering works to September just wasn't going to work. So instead I made a couple of small earthquakes that the north-west of England experienced in June-July 2013 do more damage than they did.
> 
> Meg has just finished reading chapter 5 of book 2 of Pride and Prejudice (it's a single volume in three parts).


	9. Unexpected weather

"What now?" Fraser asked as they slowly walked across the cool quiet of Edinburgh Waverley station, their footsteps well defined in the early morning emptiness.

"I'm not sure," Meg said, "from what I remember, Edinburgh doesn't really wake up until about eight; a lot of the visitor attractions don't open till ten."

"Hungry?"

"Not really. I've biscuits in my bag, but it's still too early to eat," replied Meg.

Fraser glanced around the station, the train was clearly about to depart, taking its remaining passengers onwards to Glasgow to arrive at the more civilised time of seven.

"If you're feeling energetic, we could explore Arthur's Seat," he suggested as they found an exit and made their way out onto the street above. "I think I can remember enough of the map to not get us hopelessly lost. It's a fine morning; from what you and others have told me about British weather, it might be as well to take the opportunity offered by clear skies."

"Very well, lead on," Meg said after a moment. She was tired, partly from walking so far across London over the course of the previous few days and partly from travelling, but a good brisk walk in the fresh morning air would probably be more efficient than coffee at waking her up. Fraser got his bearings as they wandered along a wide street bordered on one side by a steep part leading down to the railway and modern shops, somewhat incongruous below the older upper storeys. With a few words, they set off in what they thought was the correct direction.

"On further consideration," Fraser said after a few minutes, "I'm sure you could find your way there as well as I could."

"You're still better than me at this," Meg pointed out, stifling a yawn.

"All the more reason for you to gain more experience," Fraser said reasonably. "Especially if we take the transfer as HQ clearly wants us to."

The topic of their transfer had been raised by nearly all of the more senior officers present at their wedding. Fraser had thought it a bit lacking in tact and had declined to comment or discuss it without Meg present. He thought it strange that he had been alone each time it was mentioned; it felt almost as if they were hoping that the traits he shared with his father - particularly when it came to his preferred environment - would be enough to obtain his agreement to the transfer. Meg was the better politician in these cases: much as he liked and respected the men who were urging him to take the transfer, he was not going to make the decision alone - it was not one he could make alone - he made that clear and turned the conversation into other, less contentious channels.

Buck Frobisher had made no reference to the transfer: that may have been partly because they had discussed it with him in detail, or simply because he knew Meg and Fraser almost as well as Maggie and Ray did and was convinced that no outside urging would influence the pair. His conversation, focussing as it did on stories involving Fraser's father or, more often and less interestingly, on congratulations and reminders that he was Meg's equal had been a welcome relief to Fraser. Fortunately, the extent of the celebrations had been a morning ceremony followed by lunch after which guests had dispersed and they had visited the two detachments so the last of the colleagues did not feel entirely left out.

"Ben," Meg said with a sigh, "we're on our honeymoon. If I'd married anyone else - and after working with you in Chicago that wasn't going to happen - I'd be fast asleep at this time of the morning; probably in preparation for a day lounging on a beach somewhere. But," she continued before Fraser could make another apologetic or disparaging remark, "my life has taken the route it has taken: I was married in my uniform - and I wouldn't have it any other way. Could you possibly indulge me by not turning this into a training exercise?" she asked, looking up into her husband's face.

"You know very well that I have the greatest difficultly in denying you anything," Fraser said glancing at Meg walking beside him, "certainly not a request so reasonable. I hope you're ready for a walk though, I think it will be a six or seven kilometres round trip. And," he added after a moment's consideration, "unlike London, it will be very far from flat."

"What are we waiting for?" Meg asked lightly as they turned down an almost deserted street that she remembered vaguely; part of the Royal Mile, she thought.

They walked steadily, the straight narrow street feeling lonely and slightly claustrophobic. They were glad to gain confirmation of their location as they passed along the side of the parliament building; pausing to decipher the quotes in the stonework before a few more steps brought them to a view of Holyrood House on the left and a rough grass and heather covered hill to their right, the top hidden behind the uneven lower slopes.

Following a well worn trail and the slope of the ground, they made their way quietly upwards, often in single file, sometimes one, sometimes the other ahead. As they climbed and the ground became more exposed, they were glad of their pea coats: the air was cool and the easterly breeze was strong enough to make it chilly. They saw little other than the grass and heather at their feet and the gorse bushes that grew in the more sheltered spots: a few rabbits and some small birds. Not even the wild animals seemed to be awake though it was well past sunrise. Fraser breathed deeply; despite the proximity to the city, the air here was pure, the scent of crowded humanity barely stronger than the faint salt tang that reminded him how close Edinburgh was to the sea.

After nearly an hour's climb, they reached the top, marked simply by a triangular white pillar. They placed their packs carefully on some dry rocks and took the last few steps unencumbered. On inspection, the pillar turned out to be uninformative - a trigonometric survey point, nothing more. They looked slowly around, turning from the east with the breeze flinging Meg's hair back from face and the sun visible above the glinting North Sea; southward to the rolling rolling hills, then the city visible in the direction from which they'd come. Meg tried to pick out any landmarks other than the castle but failed; to the north were more hills, this time across a broad river - the Firth of Forth - with the city's buildings running uninterrupted to the water's edge at Leith.

Fraser made his way down from the trig point first; looking back up at his wife, he once again reflected on how lucky he was. A few minutes later, Meg joined him, her hair in disarray and her cheeks rosy from the wind. They examined where another path lead down from their position and spotted a couple of dog walkers and a dedicated jogger or two at various points: the city was slowly starting to wake.

"I suppose we should go," Fraser observed quietly, strangely loath to leave.

"Yes," Meg agreed with a sigh, "although it is beautiful up here, the wind is pretty fresh and breakfast is starting to sound appealing."

They shouldered their packs and set off down: this path was in many places narrower and steeper than the one they'd followed on the way up, at one point becoming a flight of steep, uneven steps. Meg breathed a sigh of relief when they joined a tarmac path leading along the base of a line of low but sheer crags looming menacingly over what was almost an unfenced field.

"I guess that, unlike London, you have a definite list of places to visit?" Fraser ventured after they'd walked some way in companionable silence.

"Yes," Meg agreed, "although some of it is revisiting."

"Let's hear it," said Fraser.

"Arthur's Seat," Meg started.

"Done."

"Yes," Meg agreed before continuing: "The castle, parliament, Holyrood House, Chapel Isle, Calton Hill, the Royal Mile, Botanic Gardens, National Portrait Gallery, Queensferry."

"Do you intend for us to sleep?" Fraser asked dryly; it was an impressive list and he thought it must cover almost everything the city could contain and he wasn't sure they would be able to manage it all in four days, several of the places would surely require the entire day to enjoy properly.

"Yes," Meg said with laugh, "I don't expect that we'll get around to seeing everything; I'd rather really enjoy half of it than rush through the whole list. The last time I was here," she added after a few silent steps, "I came across a strange statue of a dog. I'd like to find out more about him if possible."

"I'm sure there must be a story there," Fraser said, trying to remember whether he'd come across any mention of a dog in conjunction with Edinburgh amongst all the books he'd read in his grandmother's library but finding nothing.

"I'd need to find him again first," Meg said with a smile.

They found a small café and ordered breakfast; once they'd eaten they discussed further Meg's list of places to visit and worked out a rough plan for the few days they were in Edinburgh. They knew that what they actually ended up doing was unlikely to look much like what they'd agreed while finishing their coffees, but it was somewhere to start and would give some structure to their visit. Making inquiries of one of the waiting staff at the café answered one question: the statue Meg remembered was Greyfriars' Bobby, and a short walk brought them up above the narrow street they'd walked down earlier that morning and to the bronze statue.

"I wonder why he was called Greyfriars' Bobby," Fraser murmured as they looked at the life sized bronze Skye terrier guarding its two concrete filled basins.

"I believe he made the churchyard behind us his home," Meg said, having glanced down at the inscriptions before Fraser.

"Maybe we will find out more about his history in the Churchyard," suggested Fraser.

"We have time," replied Meg, thinking that when it came to loyal dogs, Fraser had undoubtedly lost one of the loyalest. The story - or conflicting stories - would be interesting regardless. Well behaved - or well trained - as Pearson and Clark were, they were not as strongly attached to Fraser as Diefenbaker had been; and even early on she had seen that Eliza's loyalty was certainly to her more than to Fraser.

The weather was very kind to them; by chance they'd managed to visit during one of the finest months Scotland had seen for a long time. Wherever they went, the discussion focussed on the weather and how nice, though unusual it was: locals and visitors alike enjoyed and benefitted. They spent the days in the highlands and on Skye exploring; thankful for the maps that Al had suggested. Some days they only walked a few kilometres, spending quiet hours sitting on boulders warmed by the sun and reading. Meg drove when they wanted to start from a particular point, but more often they simply walked out the door of where they were staying and carried on walking until they decided that it was time to head back, sometimes returning long after the sun had set, their way lit by the strong light of the moon in its third quarter.

Meg never worried; despite the differences in terrain, Fraser was in his element. Though the distances between habitations were not short, they were much less than those he frequently dealt with in the Canadian wilderness, which she had to admit she found reassuring. What she did not realise was just how much she was doing: without at all suspecting Fraser of thinking in his teaching frame of mind, she was becoming more self-reliant in remote conditions.

Her only really scary moment was on Skye - they had seen notices reminding visitors that the ragged Cuillin ridge had claimed many lives - both casual walkers and well prepared climbers. Yet Fraser, apparently in contempt of the dangers, lead the way in scrambling up the steep slopes and even climbing short sections, seemingly heedless of the possible consequences if one of them missed their footing and how they would make the return journey. Meg could do little but bite her tongue and follow silently, trusting Fraser and not noticing the changes that made her own progress far more sure than she might have expected.

Sitting on one accessible peak, with taller, much more forbidding peaks on either side while the corrie that dropped away in front of them was bathed in the afternoon sun, Meg dared to ask a question to which she suspected the answer. Despite his obvious enjoyment of the past ten days, she knew Fraser well enough to know that something was bothering him. The isolation of their current perch gave Fraser a measure of control over the conversation that would be lacking in a more social environment.

"What's bothering you, Ben?" she asked, gazing across the corrie to the moorland they'd spent the morning crossing.

"You remember the young woman we met in London?" he replied without hesitation.

"Yes, Al."

"Why couldn't I help her?" Fraser's voice was desponding, his disappointment in not being able to aid someone whom he had hoped to help and the self-doubt resulting from what he perceived as his failure clear in his tone.

Meg thought carefully for a moment: Fraser rarely failed to help those whom he had decided to aid; his courteous persistence usually wore down those who resisted. Al had been an exception to the general rule.

"Firstly, I think you did help," she said, her voice clear in the calm air. "You remember what she said when we were crossing the river that second day, about resolving a bunch of difficulties." Fraser snorted softy, clearly not convinced; Meg knew that the immediate effect was not the impact that he had been worried about. "Beyond that, we only met her twice - three times if you count the first day as two meetings - that's not a lot, even for you. Would you trust someone you'd barely met any more than she did?"

"I suppose not," Fraser agreed softly.

"Exactly," Meg said firmly. "Unless we cross paths with her again, there is no way of telling whether behaving unconventionally had any long term impact." She looked across at where Fraser was sitting with his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands. "I think it unlikely that we did any harm," she added, Al had been more relaxed when they'd met her the second day and it seemed unlikely that she harboured any lasting resentment.

Fraser nodded, reassured to an extent though still not entirely happy. His mind knew that not everyone would accept the help he offered; his heart still hadn't quite learnt to accept the reality.

"Sometimes all that is needed is an example that things do not have to be the way they are; that not all human feeling is lost," Meg said, almost to herself, "it's often a small action, but one that does not adhere to the current conventions." Looking down into the corrie, she saw a small herd of deer finish their climb from the lower slopes and start to graze but missed Fraser's sharp glance as he realised that she was referring to her time undercover as well as their meeting with - or disturbance of - Al on London Bridge.

The drive to Glasgow the next day was long and quiet, the traffic through the great valleys generally light. Meg couldn't enjoy the scenery as much as Fraser who had leisure to gaze out the windows while she had to concentrate on the road, but she still risked the occasional glance around at the tall, rough, hills sloping steeply up not far from each side of the road. Grey and forbidding when in shadow, more inviting, though still far from hospitable when the bright sun made the grass gleam and the steep streams glitter silver. One night in Glasgow and they bade farewell to Scotland.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The park is Princes Street gardens; I have not included the Scott memorial in the description, largely because it is pretty difficult to describe without quoting (probably mis-quoting) Dickens.  
> Meg is correct in identifying the deserted street as part of the Royal Mile.  
> September 2014 was like this: settled fine weather for the entire month - absolutely glorious walking weather; and bright moonlight in the early part of the night is common around the middle of the month.  
> Fraser's actions on Skye are similar to what he does in 'Call of the wild' where he literally carries Ray up a mountain.


	10. Making a decision

They returned to work three days after returning home, more or less readjusted after crossing the Atlantic and half of Canada. Maggie had been looking after their dogs and, though she reported that Pearson, Eliza and Clark had behaved herself, she didn't fully conceal her relief at returning the boisterous trio to their owners: a full time job, two young children and four dogs were a bit much even for her.

Lying on the top of Meg's waiting pile of paperwork were a set of transfer papers - the third since they'd become engaged in February. She slipped them into her bag; it was a matter to discuss at home.

"I'm tempted to take the transfer," she said as they sat on the sofa that evening, Meg curled up close against Fraser's side.

"Are you sure?" Fraser asked with a sharp glance at Meg.

"No," she admitted, biting her lip, "but it seems to me that it's not quite time to stop adventuring."

Fraser sat up straight, took both of Meg's hands in his and held her gaze when she lifted her head and half turned to face him.

"You know it won't be like here," he said carefully, "living with me in Inuvik. It won't be me missing dinner now and again and collapsing next to you at two a.m. when I've got tied up in a case. I simply will not be around for weeks at a time, even in the worst winter weather," he finished slowly and a little sadly.

"I know," Meg said honestly, "that's possibly my biggest reservation." She took a deep breath, keeping the conflicting emotions she'd been battling with all day out of her voice. "I miss you terribly when one of us is away, it's selfish, I know, but I can't help it." She sighed before she continued: "But I keep thinking, by not taking this transfer are we really doing our best to keep our oaths? And the very fact that we are who we are, both alone and to each other is strongly rooted in those very oaths. Does that make any sort of sense?" she asked, not convinced that she understood her on line of reasoning.

"Strangely yes," Fraser said after a few moment's consideration. "You realise that there will be no going back? We take this transfer and I will die before I leave the Territories for more than the few weeks of teaching at the Depot."

"I know," Meg replied a little sadly. "But being with you on Skye, I know it's not really the same, but I think I really started to appreciate how alluring the wilderness can be - even to one so urbanised as me," she smiled faintly, knowing that the words had only inadequately expressed what she felt. Had Fraser asked, she would not have been able to say why Skye had been so different to the times she'd gone with Fraser to the Canadian wilderness - either his cabin or when she'd joined him at the end of a secondment. Yet somehow it had been different: when she'd joined Fraser in the territories, the Yukon or Nunavut, she'd been looked after, kept in safety, but on Skye she'd shared the dangers - as in a few instances while they'd been assigned to the Chicago consulate, they'd been equal partners in the adventure. She'd been trained, she realised - even her honeymoon had been turned into a training exercise. She shook her head at the thought, her husband was nothing if not determined.

"This is not a decision to be taken hastily," Fraser reminded her gently, "no matter how satisfying a promotion would be. You've seen where they're proposing to send us and you know what it means as far as you and I are concerned: both professionally as my superior officer and personally as my wife. We both need to sleep," he continued softly, "but it is your decision. You have more to lose and I will ask you to not accept the offer if even the smallest doubt remains."

Meg nodded slowly and leant over to cup Fraser's cheek in her hand.

"I promise," she whispered and placed a soft kiss on Fraser's lips.

Nothing more was said about the north or transfers until Meg came home from work at the end of the week. Having sat down to dinner, she calmly announced: "It's done," without preface or explanation.

"What's done?" Fraser asked, confused.

"Transfers, I received confirmation this afternoon," Meg explained.

"Didn't you need my signature?" Fraser inquired a little suspiciously.

"Strangely enough no, at least not at this stage. I too was surprised that there was nothing to sign," Meg admitted. "But I am sure there will be more than enough signatures in due course," she added wryly.

"Thank you," Fraser said simply after they'd eaten in silence for a few minutes. Meg had once again managed to surprise him. He wondered what had made her change her mind - or made up her mind. He knew there was nothing preventing him from asking, but he trusted her judgement and the past few years had taught him that Meg Thatcher would eventually explain her actions to him.

"You are no doubt curious as to why I made the decision I did," Meg said as they walked through empty fields early on Sunday morning with the dogs chasing each other's, and their own, tails.

"Yes, I must admit a certain curiosity on that count," Fraser agreed.

Meg smiled slightly as she ordered her thoughts. She linked her arm with Fraser's and pressed it gently, keeping her husband close.

"You couldn't be otherwise," she murmured softly. "In the end it wasn't a difficult decision to make; I considered what would be best for everyone: you, me, the community we are to join, the RCMP; I could think of no go reason to refuse."

"But what about you?" Fraser said, still worried that Meg might regret the decision, "reason should not be the sole means used when making a decision with such far-reaching implications."

"I know," Meg admitted, "but you must remember that I too have a taste for adventure, and being in the North West Territories with you will certainly be safer than any of my missions with the CSIS. Remember too," she continued more easily, "that I've fitted in to several different cultures."

"Are you certain this is what you want?" Fraser asked insistently.

"Yes," Meg repeated, smiling, "one last adventure."

"This is serious, Meg," said Fraser sternly, "there will be no getting out if things go wrong."

"I know," she said softly, glancing across at the dogs. Eliza, seeming to sense Meg's gaze on her, chose that moment to disregard the distraction of her father's tail and trot over to walk sedately beside Meg. "I know this decision may seem strange, especially given my previous apathy to the wilderness, but my time with the CSIS and being able to at least manage a dog sled in good conditions..."

"Providing 'Liza is your lead dog," Fraser couldn't refrain from interrupting.

"True," Meg said with a soft laugh. "Anyway, I can assure you that my decision was not made on the basis on a passing fancy or a desire for change and novelty, but on careful consideration of what I want: for me as much as for anyone else."

Eliza looked round, tongue lolling and gave a loud bark, which was answered by Pearson and Clark as they came racing over. Fraser stopped and knelt with the three dogs crowding close around him. He grasped Pearson's ruff and rested his forehead against the dog's. Meg watched silently, knowing that he was convinced of her sincerity: others might have found it strange that Fraser had turned to his dogs at this point, even she knew it was peculiar, but it was part of their life - hers as much as his, she realised.

"Convinced?" she asked after a few minutes.

"Yes," Fraser said, his voice rough and his blue eyes bright when he looked over his shoulder at Meg. He rose slowly and stood before Meg, reaching out to take her left hand in his. "Thank you," he said quietly, raising Meg's knuckles to his lips.

**Author's Note:**

> This was not really planned, but I wondered how, given 'Two roads diverged,' Fraser would propose, then Maggie knew more than she should, I wanted them to meet Al - because Fraser would not adhere to accepted behaviour - and Meg wanted to actually see Edinburgh. I know this is not very exciting, mostly setting up for a third part which I have not started drafting, although I do have an idea of more or less what will happen; I've just got to write it (though that may take months).
> 
> Let me know what you think and if anything is confusing with the retrospect, especially in the first few chapters, let me know and I can see what I can do to clear things up a bit.
> 
> The title is from Wordsworth's 'Composed upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802'. If a character can be recognised from the original series, that it because it isn't mine.


End file.
